Miami, It's Murder (21 page)

Their eyes made me uneasy, a feeling that these men were seeing me as a woman somebody just tried to rape rather than as a professional, a reporter.

“Britt,” Fred said, “I don't know how to tell you this, but we're going to have Janowitz write the story. You're part of it now, too involved to report it.”

He paused, steeled for a proprietary, outraged outburst. They know I'm possessive about my beat and my stories. But truthfully, the news was almost a relief. I had a more important story to pursue.

The rapist coverage would consume days. First the arrest, then the arraignment. Then the story about who the man was and interviews with those who knew him. Interviews with psychologists about how he got that way. Perhaps an interview with him in his cell. Janowitz was welcome to it all.

“Okay,” I said. Rapists come and go, I thought. Nailing Fielding is the story I want.

Fred Douglas looked relieved at my easy acquiescence. “Why don't you fill in Janowitz and then take a couple of days off,” he said kindly.

His attitude irritated me. “I've got a couple of things I'm working on.” My voice was sharp. “Why should I take time off?”

I was aware of their stares.

“Whatever you like, Britt,” Fred looked unsure of himself.

All I want is to be treated like a professional, I thought, like everybody else.

Being interviewed by Janowitz, who kept interrupting each time I tried to answer a question, was grim. For the first time I fully understood how victims felt when I questioned them.

Of course Eduardo and Ryan wanted me to divulge to them every last nasty detail. I suggested they read about it in the morning.

When I arrived at headquarters the cops were finding it a problem to arrange a lineup with the rapist, whose name turned out to be Hector Ugalde. It wasn't easy finding other people with broken noses to stand next to him.

I wondered if I would be accused of brutality.

Giving the statement was not unpleasant. A court reporter took down every syllable, while Harry and another detective listened and asked questions. Hell, the guys now hanging on my every word were the same people who sometimes refused to talk to me.

At the moment I was on their good side. How long it lasted would depend on my next story. McDonald was nowhere in sight, but even Lieutenant Riley dropped by. “Nice job, Britt,” she said, patting my shoulder, as though I had actually done something other than save my own skin.

“Sure,” I said bitterly, realizing she must have authorized the surveillance on me. “Maybe I'll make officer of the month.”

When we finished, I felt oddly reluctant to leave the brightly lit office teeming with people in various stages of jubilation. The night now held one less threat, yet the darkness made me jittery and, if anything, even more cautious. Without thinking I drove toward the office, then remembered I wasn't needed there. Perhaps, I thought, I should go in anyway to assist Janowitz, but I hated being scrutinized by all the prying newsroom eyes.

Feeling more alone than I ever have in my life, I drove home like a zombie, on automatic pilot.

I stopped by to tell the Goldsteins that the rapist was in custody. “What is that all over you?” she worried, urging me to sit down for some of her excellent chicken soup with light fluffy matzoh balls. I wasn't hungry, but she insisted I take it with me.

Bitsy flew into my arms, then shook her head, backed off, and sneezed. I locked myself in, pulled down the shades, and fed the animals.

Dan, Curt Norske, and McDonald had left messages on my machine. McDonald. Did he expect me to ask him to come hold my hand? Or did he merely want to say “I told you so”?

I considered calling Curt, but everything was too complicated, I was too tired, and my throat hurt.

I dialed Dan's number.

“Are you all right? Why the hell didn't you call me?” he demanded. “I heard it on the news. I left half a dozen messages at your office.”

“I assumed you heard my screams,” I said, trying to sound breezy. It was good to hear his voice. “They were loud enough. I'm fine. I had to go to headquarters to make a statement.”

“That piece of scum didn't lay a hand on you, did he?” His voice was apprehensive.

“He tried. I'm so lucky, Dan. I've got bruises, fingermarks on my ankle, and a sore throat from screaming. That's all.”

“Son of a bitch!” There was a slamming sound, as though he had kicked or pounded the wall.

“Dan? What was that?”

“I just want five minutes alone with him. You had your gun, right? Why the hell didn't you blow away that bastard's ass?”

“Dan.” I worked at keeping my voice calm, but it quavered. “I tried to follow your advice. But he took me totally by surprise. Carrying a gun around in a big purse just doesn't work. In a real emergency you have to get to the bag and dig it out. We were struggling. It got locked in the stall when he dragged me out from underneath.”

“Christ! That son of a bitch!”

“I was so scared he was gonna find it.” The words caught in my throat. “The only way a gun is any good,” I rasped, “is if you can wear it in a holster around your waist and strapped to your leg, like a Wild West gunfighter. They wouldn't have survived twenty minutes in Dodge City if they had to fumble in a purse.”

Unaware I'd been under surveillance, he heartily cussed out Harry for not being there when I needed him. “How the hell could he lose you? That guy couldn't track an elephant through four feet of snow on his best day!”

“Well,” I croaked, “don't be too hard on him, Dan. He couldn't exactly stand sentry outside the ladies' room. I would have spotted him right away if he'd started stepping on my heels.”

“What the hell were you doing over there anyway?”

“Dr. Wyatt. I went to see him. He's gonna look at the pictures of the bite mark on Mary Beth Rafferty. There's a possibility he can make a match.”

“After all this time?” Dan sounded doubtful. “I asked somebody about it years ago and it was a negative.”

“The technology has advanced.” I sat down and eased my shoes off. “They can use computer enhancement on the photos.”

“Worth a try,” he said. “You sound terrible, kid. Sure you're okay? Need anything?”

“Thanks, Danny, you're a real friend. I'm fine. Talk to you tomorrow.”

I put the phone down and ran my fingers wearily through my hair. They came out with powder on them. I shuddered and suddenly felt so dirty I wanted to strip my clothes off and burn them.

I switched off the telephone so the machine would record messages without me hearing it ring, unpinned the
resguardo
from my underwear, placed it on the bathroom sink where I could see it, and locked the door. Wearing my beads into the shower, I let hot water stream over me. When it didn't seem hot enough, I kept twisting the faucet until the room filled with steam and my skin was lobster pink. As I scrubbed myself with a stiff bath brush, I saw the imprint of the man's fingers on my right ankle and cried out. Whimpering and cursing, I tried in vain to scrub them away until my ankle was raw. For the first time I realized I
wasn't
fine. Dizzy and weak from the steam, I slipped into a sitting position, drew my knees up to my chest, and wept.

Eventually the hot water ran out. The shower cooled, then turned to cold. I could not stop crying. My teeth began to chatter as I hugged my knees, and then I heard it. Pounding. Somebody trying to break in my front door. Fearfully, gasping for breath, I struggled unsteadily to my feet, turned off the water, and listened. The pounding was louder and the doorbell, which I couldn't hear in the shower, was ringing. The gun! It was still in my purse, returned by the cops, but I couldn't remember where I left it when I came in.

Too weary and frightened to search for a robe, I wrapped a bath towel around me and, still crying, walked barefoot across the floor streaming water.

“For God's sake, Britt, open the door!”

McDonald. Without thinking, I unlatched the safety chain, released the deadbolt, turned the knob, and was in his arms.

“Why the hell didn't you open the door?” he murmured into my ear. “I was so worried.” He stroked my hair. “You're all wet and cold.” He picked me up and carried me to my favorite armchair, next to the telephone.

“I went crazy when you didn't answer your phone.” His voice was gentle. I was still crying.

He left the room for a moment, then returned with my terry-cloth robe, awkwardly placing it around me.

“What are you doing here?” I said, sniffling and struggling to insert my arms into the sleeves.

He crowded into the overstuffed chair next to me and put his arms around me. He was so warm and I felt so cold. “I was off the air, in Broward at a tricounty conference, and didn't hear until I got back. I needed to know you were safe. I wanted to be with you.”

“I thought you and K.C.—”

“Don't talk, try to relax.” He went into the bedroom I had once thought of as ours and came back with the flowered comforter from my bed. As he tucked it around me, I closed my eyes like a wounded animal home safe at last. I heard him puttering around in the kitchen.

He returned with some of Mrs. Goldstein's soup, steaming in a giant mug, and I sipped it slowly. It felt good on my scratchy throat.

He pulled up another chair, lifted my feet up onto his knees, and watched me with those metallic blue-gray eyes. “Want to talk about it?”

“I was so scared, McDonald. I thought he was gonna rape me. He had a knife—” I shook my head. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I was fine. Then I just fell apart. I guess I'd been operating on an adrenaline high for hours, and when it faded so did I.”

“It's a delayed reaction. You've been through a bad experience. You're entitled. What you need now is some sleep.” He helped me to my feet. I leaned on him, almost too tired to stand up and go to bed.

He tucked me in. “Want to take these off?” he said, touching my beads.

“No,” I said, my hand flying to my throat. I took a deep, drowsy breath and mumbled, “Don't forget to lock the door when you go.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” he said. He removed his jacket, unsnapped his shoulder holster, and placed it on my dresser as he had done so many times in the past. “I'll be right here. I won't leave you.”

He lay down beside me, on top of the comforter. Under it, I trembled uncontrollably. He stroked my hair. “I'm right here. Close your eyes. Think about the beach and the warm sun,” he whispered. “Go to sleep.”

Secure and drowsy, I closed my eyes only for a moment…

When I awoke, dawn was spilling around the edges of the drawn shade in my room and McDonald was dozing in the chair beside my bed. For some reason I felt no surprise at finding him there. It seemed natural. When I stirred, he opened his eyes, yawned, then climbed again onto the bed next to me. We held each other and dozed some more.

Next time I woke up, the shade was open and I could see sky and the mango tree outside and smell coffee in the kitchen.

He scrambled eggs and made toast. We ate and drank orange juice, saying little.

He brought in the newspaper and we sat in my kitchen reading like half a million other subscribers about Hector Ugalde, the Downtown Rapist. I felt removed, as though it all had happened to a stranger. There was information new to both of us. When caught, Hector was wearing his last victim's panties under his denim skirt, also a souvenir from a prior victim. Evidently, if he liked some item of apparel and it fit him, he took it. Maybe he was superstitious and thought it brought him luck, or perhaps he simply enjoyed the irony or felt uncomfortable shopping for women's attire for himself.

The charges against him included multiple counts of rape—the law calls it “involuntary sexual battery”—armed robbery, aggravated assault, stalking, lewd and lascivious behavior, battery, attempted rape, and impersonating the opposite sex. He was a Marielito, married, with an estranged wife who had once worked in a downtown office building where two of the rapes took place.

He lived in a dilapidated apartment house behind a boatyard along the Miami River, where he occasionally worked as a hand aboard a tug. His most recent regular job was selling flowers on street corners to passing motorists during rush hour.

Police said he was a Santería worshiper, adding that he appeared to be stunned and enraged at his Santero, to whom he had paid good money for rituals to protect him from arrest. Apparently he was furious at not getting what he paid for. The arrow tattoos were also designed to keep police away. I fingered the white and blood-red beads at my throat. Aunt Odalys's magic was stronger…

I must be losing it, I thought, and laughed.

“You're looking better this morning,” McDonald said.

He didn't. He needed a shave. But he looked wonderful in my apartment.

“Thanks. Talk to Dan lately?”

He shook his head. “Not for weeks. The man worries me, Britt, never talks about the future, or the present. He's living in the past. It's all he seems to care about.”

“Maybe he feels that's all he's got left. He can be a little morose. He has to get out more among friends and good people.”

“That can be arranged,” he said, smiling. “If I can ever catch up with him and twist his arm.”

I sipped my coffee. “You know, you might have told me I was being followed.”

“It wasn't my place,” he said uncomfortably. “It wasn't—”

“I know, I know,” I interrupted. “It wasn't your case.”

“You should have listened to Harry. This was a close one, Britt. Way too close.” His eyes were serious. “Harry said he warned you not to write any more stories about the guy until he was caught. You shouldn't always be so stubborn. Besides, if you had known about the tail, it probably wouldn't have worked. You would have acted self-conscious and that would have tipped the guy.”

“You and Harry have fun discussing how stubborn I am?” The unpleasant edge to my voice reminded me suddenly of Marianne Rhodes.

He paused, staring at his coffee cup, and when he spoke again his voice was softer, despairing. “Britt, why do we always get into it this way?”

“I don't know, McDonald. I don't know,” I whispered.

He reached out for my hand.

“So how is it, being a lieutenant?” I asked, squeezing his fingers.

“Good,” he said vigorously. “Things are working out. I may get to go to SPI in the spring.”

“I'm impressed.” I smiled, my heart sinking. Only cops being groomed for promotion are sent to the Southern Police Institute in Kentucky. “Every chief we've ever had has been a graduate.”

“Right.” His eyes glittered. “It could be a real break.”

“What about you and K. C. Riley?”

“That has nothing to do with us, Britt.”

“Oh?”

“I care about you, Britt. You will always be important to me. I'll always care, and I'll always be here for you.” He paused. “You know, I was jealous at first when I saw you with that guy in the ice-cream suit.” His expression said he imagined I would find that hard to believe. “But then I felt glad for you, Britt. You deserve to be happy.”

I knew what he was saying. There were so many things I wanted to tell him, so many things I wanted him to explain. But, again, our professions stood between us.

He kissed me goodbye at the door, and my apartment suddenly seemed empty.

I poured myself more coffee and reread the story about the rapist. A bond hearing was scheduled for today.

Janowitz had done a thorough job, but I would have written it differently. I noted with irritation that I was misquoted at least once. “Scared the heck out of me” sounded stupid and just wasn't something I would ever say.

The phone rang. Mrs. Goldstein had just read the story. “What a relief he's in jail,” she said. “This whole thing must have been terrifying, Britt.”

I scrunched down in my favorite chair, knees under my chin, the phone to my ear.

“I'm glad it's over too,” I said. “That guy scared the heck out of me—”

When I heard what I said, I pressed my forehead to my knees and closed my eyes. Spend your life reporting the words of other people, and it is still a revelation when someone accurately reports yours.

“I saw your lieutenant,” my landlady said slyly. “I'm glad he's back.”

“He just came by to make sure I was all right,” I whispered, my throat tight. “That's all.”