Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1) (2 page)

Paige picked up the silverware and placed the forks on the left side of the plates and the knives and spoons on the right side. “Yeah, I think it’s insane that we’re supplying Al-Qaeda with arms in one country while trying to kill them in another country.”

“Didn’t Raul do charity work, too? I think you told me something about that.”

He leaned against the counter, watching Sveta pour the iced tea. “Yeah, he did a lot of charity work, but he kept a low profile. He started an organization to help people who escaped from Cuba get on their feet when they arrived in Miami. Sometimes, when he couldn’t raise enough money from the Cuban community, he dipped into his own pocket. I remember one time seeing him pull a wad of cash out of his pocket and giving it to some Cuban guy so he could buy a turkey for his family to celebrate their first Thanksgiving in America. I got the feeling he did a lot of things like that. It was the kind of guy he was.”

They walked out to the veranda, which overlooked the Atlantic Ocean on one side and the mainland on the other. Sveta carried a tray with two tall glasses of iced tea and a pitcher. Paige inhaled the ocean air as he felt the breeze on his face. The sun set low in the sky. It shone through her medium-length blonde hair and reflected off her long, curvy red nails as they sat down. She was approaching forty, but she didn’t look it.

He could feel the coldness of the glass on his palms as he rolled it back and forth in his hands. Sveta handed him the sugar. He poured it into the glass and watched as the stream of granules slowly sank to the bottom, but his head was in a different place. He had a mental image of Raul and Gabriella getting shot and wondered whether they experienced any pain when the assassins executed them.

He snapped out of his reverie and looked up at Sveta. “If it weren’t for the note they left, it would be very easy to suspect either the government or someone who supports the current federal government policies killed Raul. After 9/11, Vice President Dick Cheney said that anyone who criticized the government was guilty of treason for giving aid and comfort to the enemy. Maybe the people who did this thought Raul was guilty of treason and decided to be his judge, jury, and executioner.”

Sveta looked him in the eyes. She reached across the table and caressed his left hand with her right.

“I came to America to get away from that kind of government. The people in Russia want free pensions, free health care, free birth control, and free everything else, and the Russian politicians are promising to give it to them. They don’t care if their phones are tapped or their emails are monitored. They’re used to it. I’m scared that Americans are getting used to it too. American politicians are making the same promises Russian politicians make, and American voters are falling for it. They don’t realize that nothing is free. They don’t understand that a government that can give you everything can also take it all away.”

“Not all American politicians are making those promises.” He stirred the sugar into his tea, making a tinkling sound.

“Yes, I know. Some voters understand. But most of them don’t, and it’s easier to get elected if you promise to give people things. Politicians who don’t act like Santa Claus can’t get elected. I’m afraid that America is turning socialist, like Russia and Europe. Where will I go if that happens? I don’t want to leave America.”

“You don’t have to start packing yet. A lot of people are waking up to what’s going on. Even some of the liberal professors at my university are starting to get concerned about the direction America is taking.”

“Yes, but I’m afraid it’s not enough. I’m worried.”

“Well, maybe things will get better soon, as more people start to wake up and see what’s happening in America. You don’t need to have a majority to be successful in changing the direction of a country. During the Russian Revolution of 1917, only a small minority supported the communist cause. During the first American Revolution, only about one-third of the population supported the cause for independence. What’s important is that you have an organized minority who are willing to die for their cause. History is made by minorities.”

Paige went to the Miami Police Department’s office in Kendall the next morning to see if he could learn anything that hadn’t been reported in the newspaper. A pudgy Hispanic man in a dark blue police uniform sat behind the front desk. He looked up as Paige approached.

“Hello. I was a friend of Raul Rodriguez. I’d like to speak to the person who’s in charge of his murder investigation.”

“That would be Detective Norman Fedorovitch.” He pointed a thumb to Paige’s left. “He’s down the hall in 114.”

A long line of people waited to go through security. He always felt sad when he lined up to take his turn at those machines. Americans had become too accustomed to being subjected to routine warrantless searches as a condition of exercising their right to travel. Would that loss of freedom ever be restored? Maybe Americans would wake up and do something about it, but he wasn’t optimistic. Americans were becoming sheep, or perhaps lemmings, prepared to jump over a cliff if their leaders said they had to do it for national security.

After being processed, he marched down the hall to room 114. The door was open, so he walked in. He saw a large room with a series of desks in the center. Partitioned offices lined the walls. He noticed a brass nameplate saying Norman Fedorovitch in the center of a slightly ajar door. He walked over and knocked. The man crouched at the desk appeared to be close to retirement, with thin gray hair and a ruddy complexion. The room smelled of Lysol disinfectant.

“Good morning. My name’s Robert Paige. I was a friend of Raul Rodriguez. I’d like to help with the investigation any way I can.”

“Thanks for the offer, but the FBI took over the investigation. We’re no longer involved.”

Hmmm. I wonder why the FBI’s so interested in this case. “Can you tell me who to contact at the FBI?”

“No. Sorry. We were instructed not to talk to anyone about the case.”

“You can’t even give me a name?”

“No. Can’t do it, buddy.”

“Why is the FBI getting involved? Isn’t this just a local murder case?”

“Look, I can’t talk about it.”

Great. First he had to battle Miami rush hour traffic to get across town. Then he had to put up with federal stonewalling that prevented a public servant from answering simple questions.

“OK. Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem.”

On the way out, he decided to call Priscilla, Raul’s ex-wife. He didn’t have her cell number, but she worked at the Century 21 real estate office in Kendall, or at least she did when he met her a few years ago. He found her number on the Internet and called.

“Hello, this is Priscilla Rodriguez.”

“Hi, Priscilla. This is Bob Paige. We met a few years ago. I was a friend of Raul’s.”

“Hi, Bob. I remember. You’ve heard about Raul?”

“Yes. Could I stop by your office for a few minutes? I’m in Kendall. It won’t take long.”

“Sure. I have an appointment at 12, but I’m free now.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right over.”

He wasn’t too familiar with Kendall. He lived in northeastern Dade County and Kendall was in the southwest quadrant, bordering Biscayne Bay, so he made a few wrong turns before locating her office with the help of his GPS.

He found a place to park a few feet from the front door, which was a stroke of good luck. Parking in some Miami neighborhoods was like trying to find a room in Fort Lauderdale during spring break.

As he walked into the office, Priscilla spotted him.

“Bob, it’s good to see you.” She walked toward him and extended her right hand, which he shook.

The outer office consisted of a waiting area and a few desks, like many real estate offices. Two other agents hovered by the coffee machine, like hawks eyeing potential prey.

She wore a red and black jumpsuit, businesslike but also attractive. She looked good, at least for someone in the 40-50 age range. The problem was that a lot of men liked younger women. That’s why she lost Raul.

It was tough being a woman in Miami. The competition was fierce. Cosmetic surgeons promoted their services on billboards and late-night television. Affordable prices with financing available.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

“Let’s go into my office where we can talk.”

They walked in and she closed the door. A sad expression came over her face. She lifted her chin and looked him in the eyes.

“Raul was a philandering bastard but I still loved him.”

Her eyes started watering and her lower lip quivered. She grabbed a tissue and wiped away tears, working to compose herself as they sat down.

Paige nodded. “Yeah, he was quite a guy. He had his thumb on the pulse of the community.”

“He also had it in other places. He was a chick magnet. Young women couldn’t get enough of him. The older ones too. After a while I’d had enough. But he remained a good provider. He always paid his child support on time and put Mariela and Susana through college. They were proud to be his daughters.”

“Priscilla, I need to ask you, did he receive any threats?”

“Sure. He didn’t tell me about all of them. Raul didn’t want me and our daughters to worry, but I found out about them. He had been receiving threats for years, on and off, usually after talking about the Cuban embargo on his radio show, but sometimes for other things as well.”

“Like what?”

She gazed out the window in silence. The fronds on the palm tree across the street swayed in the breeze.

She turned toward Paige. “Sometimes, when he criticized the government, someone would call him a traitor and tell him to go back to Cuba. He got phone calls or nasty notes threatening to kill him if he didn’t shut up.”

“Did he report those threats to the police?”

“Once in a while he did, but usually not. He would always say that no one was going to intimidate him or silence him.”

“That sounds like Raul. He really liked exercising his right of free speech.”

“That reminds me. Yesterday I got a surprise visit from a pair of FBI guys. They weren’t very nice. In fact, they were nasty. They told me I couldn’t talk to anyone about Raul for national security reasons. If I talked to anyone, they would throw me in jail. And I wouldn’t be able to get out because they wouldn’t allow me to have an attorney.”

Paige shifted in his chair. “Unfortunately, the Patriot Act allows them to do things like that. How did you respond?”

“I was shocked. They didn’t give me their condolences or anything. They just threatened me. I couldn’t wait for them to leave.”

“But you’re talking to me now. Should you be talking to me?”

She stood, placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “They can go to hell. Nobody’s going to silence me. My family didn’t escape from Cuba so that some new government could tell us what to do. We should be telling the government what to do.” The tears were gone, replaced by a look of defiance and determination.

After Paige determined she had nothing more of consequence to share, they engaged in a few minutes of more pleasant conversation about her kids. Then Paige thanked her and left. As he walked out the front door, he couldn’t help wonder. Why was the FBI so interested in this case? Not only did they swipe it out of the hands of the police, they ordered them not to talk about it, and now they threatened Raul’s ex-wife to ensure her quiet obedience.

Why did they take the case in the first place?

Raul hadn’t been involved in drugs or human trafficking, which were two of the main reasons the FBI got involved in local murder cases. There had to be some other reason. What could it be?

As he walked toward the car, he took out his cell phone and called Sveta.

“Hi. Are you free for lunch?”

“No, Robert. I’m too busy today. How about tomorrow?”

He liked her accent. It was cute, and just what he needed at the moment. She trilled her r’s, and his name—Robert—had two of them. When she said “busy” it sounded more like “bee-zee.”

“What did the police say? Could they give you any information?”

He related the conversations he had with the police and Priscilla.

She paused before responding. “I wonder what they’re trying to hide. Why is the FBI taking such an interest in this case. And why are they being so mean?”

“I don’t know. Yet. But I’m going to find out. I’m going to the
Miami Herald
. Maybe the reporter who’s covering the case can tell me something.”

“Be careful, Robert. You don’t want to get in trouble with the FBI.”

“Don’t worry about it. I won’t get in trouble. But if I don’t come home for a few days, notify the media and tell them the story.”

“Robert, tell me you’re kidding.”

“Okay, I’m kidding. But if I don’t come home….”

Paige looked at his watch. Lunchtime. The alarm bells in his stomach went off. Two restaurants sat across the street. The one on the left had more palm trees, and outside tables. It was a pleasant, warm Miami day. He wanted to eat outside and watch the people go by.

He strolled across the street and sat at one of the tables closest to the sidewalk. After viewing the traffic and pedestrians for about a minute, he looked up to see a waitress walking toward him. She handed him a menu.

“Good afternoon. What would you like to drink?”

“Ice tea, please.”

“Sweetened?”

“Yes, thank you.”

As she turned around, he enjoyed watching her try to walk in shoes with heels that increased her height by about six inches. The tight skirt was a nice touch too, cinching her knees together. It helped make her waddle more noticeable. Her presence in the restaurant probably increased male attendance by at least 20 percent.

The Jennifer Lopez version of
Quién Será
played on the sound system. It seemed appropriate for the restaurant, and for Miami in general, although he preferred the
Pussycat Doll
version, which, in English, was called
Sway
, but a much different version than the one Dean Martin used to sing. Paige sometimes used the
Pussycat Doll
version for accompaniment when he competed in forms competitions in Taekwondo tournaments.