Garden of Evil (11 page)

“So what are you going to do, put a wanted poster in every feminine hygiene department? Put her picture on Kotex boxes like missing kids on milk cartons?”

“Very funny.” He scowled. “You never know when some of this physical evidence is gonna be important. The scientific stuff goes over great in court. They're gonna try to match up her DNA with the other cases.”

“So she's having unprotected sex with them.”

“Right. The college kid apparently had condoms, even opened one, but never put it on. Maybe he was in a hurry.”

“Why weren't they worried about HIV and all those other sexually transmitted diseases?”

He shrugged as we stepped out into the lobby.

“But,” I said, remembering what the clerk had said about Saladrigas being a frequent guest. “Sonny could have infected his wife and kids. What's wrong with you guys?”

“What's wrong with women?” he retorted. “A guy goes out, meets a pretty face, has a few laughs, hopes for a little horizontal mambo, and winds up inside a chalk outline. Romance ain't what it used to be.”

 

Miami's police chief appealed to the state's Violent Crime Council for at least $100,000 to help defray expenses. Cops had already logged hundreds of hours of overtime and costs were mounting in a city nearly broke. The reward had climbed to $200,000.

I caught my breath every time the phone rang, but she didn't call. Charlie Webster did.

“Looks like the rumors 'bout 'ol Buddy were true. They ran a test in his office to detect the presence of semen stains.”

“Right, a UV light,” I said. “Ultraviolet fluoresces old semen stains just as luminal reveals traces of blood even though it's been cleaned up.”

“That's it. Appears ol' Rupert was pretty reckless with his seed, so to speak. They went in there in the dark, shone that light, and the place lit up like high noon.”

“Where?”

“You name it. Found stains on the carpet, the couch, his chair, the walls, even his goddamn desk blotter. Had he been a younger man and the ceiling hadn't been as high, they probably woulda found it there, too.”

 

Sonny's viewing was set for noon to 9
P.M.
at the Caballero funeral home. Lottie picked me up down in front of the News building.

“Quick,” she said, as I slid into the car and slammed the door, “you still got a number for the Hemlock Society?” She looked pale and haggard and sounded hoarse.

We both had taken CPR, First Aid, even a class on the Heimlich maneuver. Now there are courses on how to end your life. We had done a story on suicide sessions. “If it's the last thing you do, do it right,” instructors urged. Their recipe called for pills, booze, a plastic bag, and an elastic band.

“What's wrong? Don't think I have the number on me, but I can probably find you a plastic bag.”

“Good, don't fergit the booze and the pills.” Lurching over the speed bump into traffic, she cut off a circulation truck whose driver hit his brakes.

“Wish you had mentioned you were suicidal,” I said, fastening my seat belt. “I could have driven my own car.”

“Didn't I know it all along?” she croaked. “Didn't I tell ya from the start?”

“Is your throat sore?”

She nodded. “From all the screaming.”

“Oh, jeez. Tex?” I inquired.

“Who else?”

“Tried to call you last night, late. Figured you two were out.”

“We was supposed to go to dinner at Sambuca, then hit some-a the South Beach hot spots, Amnesia, Liquid, and Bash. I'm all dressed up and he shows up late—”

“But he did show up?”

“Wait,” she said. “That ain't nothin'. He tells me we have to make a stop first. Some dinky li'l dive in Li'l Havana. Wait in the car, he says, and traipses off. So I'm setting there in the car by myself, checking it out, and there's thangs rattling around in the console. Thangs 'bout the length of a pencil and big around as a quarter. Guess what they were?”

“Oh, I don't know, Lottie, don't make me guess. I have a lot to tell you.”

“Okay! Fine. If you don't wanna hear it…” Her pouty face crumpled. She who, this morning, had been my exemplar for happiness.

“Shut up, slow down, tell me everything.”

“I seen 'em before when I was shooting stuff for AP in Colombia and El Salvador.”

Whatever they were, they weren't good. I blinked and waited for the punch line.

“Fifty-caliber slugs, the ones for sniper rifles. Kin take out a target a mile away.”

“Aw, shit.”

“Exactly what I said.”

“What on earth is Tex doing with that kind of ammo?”

“Helping plan an assassination,” she said matter-of-factly.

So much for happiness, I thought. “Who do they plan to assassinate?”

“Fidel.”

“Oh, for God's sake.”

“I know! I told 'im. Only reason Fidel is still alive with all the plots hatched outa this town for the last thirty
years is cuz every damn one of them exile groups is fulla spies. Some are all spies, spying on each other.”

“What's his role?”

“Flying them to Margarita, an island off Venezuela, just before Fidel's visit next month.”

I winced. “You know the feds will never let them get off the ground with that kind of firepower. They'll swoop down, arrest them all, and seize his plane. He may end up the only one prosecuted because everybody else involved is working undercover for various government agencies.”

“Ten of the guns and lotsa ammo were in the trunk.”

“Yikes, Lottie, I'm sorry. What did you do?”

“He had an extra ignition key on the floorboard. Always did that. So I stole the damn car, drove out to the old Dodge Island bridge by the port, high heels and all, and heaved each and every one a them guns and all that ammo off into deep salt water.”

“Jeez, Lottie, why didn't you call me?”

“No point getting you involved. That's jist it, he calls me the love of his life and takes me out riding around with all that shit in the car. A cop had pulled 'im over we both woulda got busted. My career'd be down the toilet. I'd sure never get Secret Service clearance agin.”

“That SOB.”

“Damn right. Against my better judgment I go back to Li'l Havana, where he's running up and down the street like a wild man. He's thrilled to see me and the car, till I tell 'im I found guns and ammo that somebody musta left in it before he rented it, so naturally I got rid of 'em, to make sure he didn't git in trouble.”

“How'd he take it?”

“Not good. Tells me the whole story and wants to know what I done with 'em. Wouldn't tell 'im, a-course, I could jist see 'im and his new
compadres
under the bridge with a dive boat. That's what he'd do. We sorta made up, but driving over to South Beach for dinner he starts making
calf eyes, trying to sweet-talk me into telling 'im. Instead, I tell 'im 'bout federal prison, his next stop. Damn it to hell, Britt. He ain't got no flag to wave here. The man jist can't help getting involved in stuff he's got no business being involved in. So we git in a big wrangle.”

“Bummer.”

“That ain't all. I was so mad I coulda swallowed the devil, horns and all. His hardheaded, obstinate streak jist made me want to scream. So I did. Screamed at the toppa my lungs to drown him out. Then I screamed again. You know, the long-drawn-out one with the little yodel in it? He could never deal with that one. We're trapped in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the MacArthur, I'm screaming and yodeling, and he throws open the driver's side door to jump out and take a walk.”

“Oh, no.”

“Ain't the half of it. As he does, a Beach motorcycle cop come roaring up through traffic, 'tween cars, on his big Kawasaki eleven hundred and slams right into it.”

“Oh, no!”

“Blows the door clear off that new rental, the Kawasaki goes down, the cop goes ass-over-teakettle skiddin' down the pavement on his backside, flying glass everywhere.”

“Oh my God. How bad is the cop hurt? Who was it?”

“Young guy, name-a Larkberry. Real stud. Seen him around before in them high boots and tight pants. Won't be wearin' them for a while. Had him some road rash. Wearing a neck brace and stretched out on a backboard when they slid him in the ambulance, but I think he'll be okay.”

“Was Tex arrested?”

“Got a buncha tickets. I called a cab from the Coast Guard station and left his sorry ass there, his hair fulla broken glass. Coupla hours later, he called. Was at Bash, you could tell he'd been drinking. Wanted me to join him.”

“What'd you say?”

“What didn't I say? Stay outa my life, you freak! Haul ass back to Lone Star and don't bother looking back. I screamed and yodeled till he hung up. Even the dog was howlin'. Far as I know, Tex is still out there, drinking and dancing with the beautiful people. Once he's on a tear, he don't slow down for days.” She whistled. “Would ya look at this. Sonny's sure pulling 'em in.”

The parking lot was full, the streets around the funeral home clogged with cars.

Local movers and shakers, all the politicos, and their entourages were working the spacious velvet-draped room, greeting each other, shaking hands, and ignoring the corpse, which was just as well. Sonny looked lousy. They did a good enough job covering the hole in his head with putty or something, but his complexion was gray and unnatural. Enough to turn you off open caskets for good. Me, I'd just as soon be dipped in bronze and stood in Bayfront Park at the edge of the water, with seagulls and pigeons for company.

The widow refused to speak to me, and other relatives made rude remarks because of my last story. I blamed my evil editors for mentioning Sonny's peccadilloes. At least we weren't barred from the premises, as were a few of Sonny's political enemies, stopped at the door and banished after minor scuffles. The press was in full attendance, with TV news crews interviewing local dignitaries in the meditation room. Lottie disappeared into the garden of standing floral arrangements to shoot the politically powerful discreetly as they approached the bier to pay their respects.

The police chief, in full dress uniform, was reluctant to discuss Sonny's case. “We're doing everything possible,” was all he would say, the same sound bite he'd given the TV crews. During our chat, however, he mentioned a new development in another case I had written about.

A Chicagoan, one Jeremy Sullivan, had driven his ex-girlfriend to Miami months earlier. She was in the trunk.
He was trying to borrow a shovel when police intervened. He told Miami police he had killed her before leaving Chicago. So local cops charged him with failure to report a death, a mere formality to hold him for Chicago homicide detectives. When they arrived, he confessed again, saying he'd murdered her in Miami. No one could prove if it was either city, or somewhere in between. Prosecutors in both places backed off, fearing that if he confessed at trial to committing the crime in the other jurisdiction, the case would be thrown out, double jeopardy would apply, and he would walk. Instead, since nobody could prove where the crime did occur, he did walk. He had just been released.

A great outrage story.

As political adversaries scuffled at the door, Lottie nudged me. “Let's go,” she whispered urgently. We went.

“You won't believe the great quotes I've got for your story,” she said, as we emerged into the blinding sunlight and chaotic traffic sounds outside. “Listen to this. I'm behind the flowers and the potted palms when the mayor comes up to the casket alone, kneels, genuflects, then gives Sonny the bird and says, ‘You son of a bitch, you deserved it. Where the hell is the money?'”

“Wow! Did you burst out of the bushes to ask ‘What money, Mr. Mayor?'”

“Hell, no. He never knew I was there.”

“Could be cash from that payoff at the port. Remember all the rumors?”

“Or kickbacks from the big developers on that Brickell Avenue project. Everybody knows something fishy was going on there.”

“Or the missing money from the Overtown restoration project. Sonny mighta been holding it, until it was safe to divvy up.”

“Yeah, coulda had it in a safety deposit box under an assumed name.”

 

The mayor emphatically denied everything, of course. Not only would he never say such a thing or make such a gesture, he thundered, it was a flagrant violation of privacy to shamelessly spy on the bereaved
compadre
of a slain public servant during this tragic and emotional time. This was another example, he said, of a vicious conspiracy to undermine his administration, and he threatened to sue. He and his lawyer protested to the executive editor and the managing editor and even stormed through the newsroom to protest in person to the publisher.

At the afternoon news meeting they kicked around the ethical question of Lottie failing to make her presence known. As if she was expected to push her face through the palm fronds and identify herself before he spoke. She may have misheard, they said. The room was noisy, the organ playing, and the man muttering under his breath. They decided not to go with it.

Instead, the political reporter would be assigned to nose around to see what else, if anything, could be unearthed.

Lottie and I were furious. She heard him, at a public gathering, an event where the press was welcome and in obvious attendance. The paper had no
cojones
, no faith in us. Had one of those editors overheard it, would they have had the same reservations?

Ojeda instructed me to contact him through dispatch if the killer called, no matter what the hour, but nothing. I stayed busy tracking down the slain Chicago woman's irate relatives by phone, along with the prosecutors and detectives in both cities.

“He killed her in Chicago and drove her down here,” the Miami detective said.