Miami, It's Murder (4 page)

“It was. I never would have survived without the help of Sylvia and Matthew Fielding,” she said, as we walked to the door.

My spine began to tingle. “Oh? The candidate's parents?”

“A wonderful family. And a wonderful man. I hope he wins.”

“He was the one who found your daughter that day.”

“Yes.” Her eyes clouded. “We knew them only slightly then, as neighbors, but as parents they reached out to us in every way. They even made it possible for me to remain in this house after the divorce, and when I remarried they helped Ronald launch his business.”

“They invested?”

She nodded. “Matthew Fielding is my husband's partner in the business. Fluorescent light bulbs. The factory is in Hialeah.”

My mind raced. “What about the little boy, Mary Beth's playmate that day?”

She paused and tilted her head as she held the door open for me. “I'm not sure what became of them,” she said as I stepped outside. “I can't recall the woman's name. She worked as a domestic at a home here in the neighborhood. Her poor child was traumatized, and she was terribly upset. It was all so long ago.” And she closed the door behind me.

I detoured, on the way back to the paper, to drive by the murder scene. The spot where Mary Beth Rafferty's body was found on that long-ago afternoon was gone. No mangroves, no sandy filled-in lot. The Sea Breeze, a fourteen-story condominium with a pool and covered parking, now occupied the site.

At the office, I spent some time in the library reading about Eric Fielding. He was well known, but unlike many of my colleagues, I have never been thrilled by the power and glory of politics and rarely riveted by its coverage. He liked to describe himself as a law-and-order candidate and was a strong supporter of capital punishment.

That was interesting, but I felt inclined to drop the whole thing at that point, until I read more about the candidate's private life. The details sounded harmless but made the hairs prickle on the back of my neck.

Fielding had married late, just a few years ago, and when he did, he married a widow with a little girl. His stepdaughter was now eight years old.

I wanted to talk to Fred Douglas, the city editor, but he was not in his office. Gretchen caught me as I left to go home.

“How's the rapist piece coming?”

My expression must have looked blank, because her eyes grew suspicious.

“Your weekender on the Downtown Rapist,” she said accusingly. “It's on the budget.”

“No problem,” I said. “You'll have it.”

Back to the present, I thought, pushing the past out of my mind and heading home to work in peace.

I opened a bottle of Iron Beer and sat down at my kitchen table to study my notes on the Downtown Rapist.

He was a predator who stalked working women. Six so far—that were known. Cops suspect that for every reported rape, as many as ten go unreported. Nobody knows for sure.

This attacker was in his thirties, spoke with a Spanish accent, and ambushed his victims in the brightly lit office towers that spike the downtown skyline. He selected the one location where finding women was guaranteed: the women's rest room. When his victim entered, he was waiting.

My concentration was broken by the telephone on the counter behind me. Startled, I snatched it up, forgetting I was not at the office.

“Britt Montero.”

“Hello, dear,” my mother said. “Where were you?”

“Just got home.” I tucked the mouthpiece under my chin.

“You work too hard.”

“So do you, Mom.” In retail fashion for years, she now managed the main downtown office for a growing chain of boutiques.

I wound a strand of hair around and around my index finger, my eyes compelled to return to the words in the open notebook in front of me.

The rapist would press a hunting knife to his victim's throat and warn her not to look at him. When she was overpowered, blindfolded, and gagged, he would take a paper towel from the dispenser, print
OUT OF ORDER
on it, and tape it to the rest-room door.

The familiar rhythm of my mother's voice was a surrealistic accompaniment to the chilling image of the rapist at work.

“Some of the girls from my building, and of course everyone from work is going.” I tried to focus on what she was saying. Something about a luncheon and fashion show at the Falls. “All the guests get favors, little goody bags, you know, full of cosmetics and perfume samples from the participating stores at the center.”

My unwilling eyes were irresistibly drawn back to my notes. Her wrists were bound to her ankles, convenient for what he did next.

“Some of the fall lines are simply divine,” my mother said. “The colors and the adorable knits are to die for.”

Downtown rest rooms were now dangerous places for grown women. Police were advising them to go only in pairs—impossible, of course, for the employees of many small offices. Half a dozen attacks in four buildings.

My weakness for Cuban coffee dispatches me on endless quests for rest rooms. Such places had never struck me as unsafe. Until now.

“Britt? Britt! Are you there?”

I tore my eyes from the pages. “Mom,” I blurted, “have you been reading about the rapist? Do you know he attacks women in rest rooms?”

“Ours are locked,” she said after a pause, sounding slightly puzzled at the sudden change of subject.

“Mom, he gets into them anyway.” My eyes drifted back to my notes. “I'm working on a project about the Downtown Rapist.”

“The what …! Oh, good Lord, Britt!”

“Don't fret, Mom. You're in more danger than I am.”

“Don't you tell me not to worry, Britt. I read in
Newsweek
just the other day that at least sixty journalists were killed or reported missing last year.”

“Mostly in Yugoslavia or El Salvador. I promise not to go there.” These were tough times in the newsroom. With the budget crunch I was lucky to receive twenty-two cents a mile for driving to a shooting in Opa-Locka, much less airfare to a war.

Reporting can be risky business in Miami, though I would never admit it to my mother. One journalist lost both legs to a car bomb, and some of us have been shot at, beaten, threatened, and stabbed, to say nothing of rocked, bottled, and mugged. But all in all the profession has a lower casualty rate than more death-defying occupations, such as all-night service station attendant and convenience store clerk.

“A lot of reporters also go to prison.” Her tone seemed to imply that that was where I was headed.

“That's Cuba, Mom, not here.”

A beat passed, then two. “You know I'm not comfortable discussing that.”

I wondered where that line came from and whether she was seeing a therapist. “Look,” I said, suddenly contrite. “Where is this thing you want me to go to?”

She told me.

“Okay, if things stay slow on the beat Saturday, I'll try to take a break and come by to say hello. If not, let's have dinner on Monday, my day off,” I said.

“Fine,” she trilled. “But let's make it this Friday, instead. The Fine Arts Center is opening a wonderful new show, the Headache Art Exhibit.”

“The what?”

She laughed. “It was written up in your own paper. It's the work of artists with headaches, exposing their pain.”

“You're kidding.”

“You've heard of suffering artists? This gives new meaning to the phrase. Your art critic said it's wonderful. The self-portrait by one artist shows his skull exploding; another depicts a hand yanking a fistful of brains like taffy from the head of a screaming man. There might be some interesting people there,” she said meaningfully.

Exactly what I need after a hard week's work, I thought. My lower right eyelid had begun twitching almost imperceptibly. It does that occasionally. I pressed my fingers against it, squinting. How did this happen? Dinner on Monday had evolved into some sort of extravaganza on Friday, with the specter of matchmaking lurking behind the scene. My mother picked up on my silence.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. My eyelid is twitching.”

“Lack of potassium. Eat a banana, dear. Or bake a nice sweet potato. You don't eat or sleep right.”

“I don't know about Friday.”

“He's an ophthalmologist, Britt.”

“Who?” I knew it, I thought.

“My friend Emma's son. She can't wait for you to meet him,” she gushed. “He'll only be in town for a few days.”

I sighed, holding my eyelid tight as something inside it did the polka. With the other, I saw Billy Boots boldly force his whiskery face into Bitsy's dish. The dainty little dog stopped eating and politely sat down, watching the cat devour her beefy food.

“Britt, I hope they find the rapist, but why are you always so fascinated by the dark side, engrossed in contemptible things that shouldn't involve you?”

“Contemptible?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “You're just like … like…”

“Say it,” I said wearily. “Like my father.”

Stretching the phone cord and my right leg to the max, I tried to move Bitsy's dish to safety with my foot, but the greedy cat moved with it, picking up speed, wolfing the dog food with amazing speed.

“None of us is young forever,” my mother said. My attention wandered back to my notebook. “Opportunities don't always come again,” she warned.

They come far too often for the Downtown Rapist, I thought.

“Uh-oh, something is boiling over in the kitchen,” I said. “Have to go now. Call you tomorrow. 'Bye.”

Burdened by guilt, I glared at poor Bitsy, who was sniffing at her empty dish. “What's wrong with you?” I scolded. “Why don't you ever stick up for yourself?”

I opened another can for her and warmed up a slab of leftover
pulpeta
for me. My Aunt Odalys's homemade meat loaf is a winner, concocted with ham, beef, hard-cooked eggs, and stuffed olives. She had delivered it in a Care package the day before. My father's youngest sister and my mother have not been on friendly terms since my fifteenth birthday. I made a note to buy some bananas, tossed a light
ensalada
with an oil and vinegar dressing, poured a glass of red wine, and cut a slice of crusty Cuban bread.

Feeling better after dinner, I clipped my beeper to the waistband of my running shorts and took Bitsy for a stroll around the block. The night was beautiful, with pale trailing clouds strewn like fishermen's nets across the sky. A few neighbors waved, stopping to chat along the way.

The rapist stalked the forest of my mind, casting his shadow across every man we passed, particularly those young and dark-haired and his height. Strangely, no one but his victims had ever seen him. No strangers had been reported wandering the corridors of the buildings.

I checked the time, displayed in lights high atop the landmark 407 Lincoln Road Building, and wondered if Harry Arroyo, the lead detective on the case, would be working late. This might be a good time to call him. I didn't look forward to it; I would win no popularity contests at the Sexual Battery office right now. But I'm used to rejection, I thought glumly. The rape squad lieutenant had already hung up on me twice today, but Arroyo was usually less testy. Anybody was usually less testy than the lieutenant.

Years ago the then all-male members of the rape squad liked to refer to themselves as the Pussy Posse. The department had come a long way since those days, but rape investigators could still be difficult and sometimes insensitive. Detectives had tried to keep the lid on this case, hoping to apprehend the rapist in the act. I heard about him after the third attack, but the lieutenant had warned that publicity would tip off the suspect. “The rapist will become more cautious, change his turf, alter his MO, making it tougher to catch him,” the lieutenant had insisted.

That thinking always confounded me. A man out there raping and robbing must assume that the cops want a word with him. Besides, they had been unable to stop him. How many big-city bathrooms could a handful of cops keep under surveillance? How many other women would fall victim? News coverage might flush him out or provide valuable new information. The rapist's wife, mother, or lover, a neighbor, co-worker, or employer might grow suspicious, I argued, and turn him in. If nothing else, it would at least alert potential victims to better protect themselves.

The first story dubbed him the Downtown Rapist. He was not scared off. The man either didn't read the newspaper or didn't give a damn. He either had chutzpah or was powerless to control the demons that drove him.

I fumbled with the key, suddenly aware of the darkness around my front door. Unsnapping Bitsy's leash, I walked into the kitchen and found that Billy Boots had upchucked on the floor.

“What did you expect after pigging out on that dog food? I told you it wasn't good for you.” I mopped up the mess with a paper towel, then picked up my notebook and settled back into my favorite stuffed chair next to the telephone.

What I needed was a news peg. I pushed number five on the automatic dialer. I listened to it ring, wondering if perhaps my mother was right. Normal people program the numbers of best friends, lovers, close relatives, and maybe their favorite boutiques or pizza delivery chains into their telephones. Mine connects me to the homicide bureaus of two police departments, the morgue, the fire alarm office, the rape squad, the police public information office, the County Hospital emergency room, the city desk, and Lottie.

Harry Arroyo answered. “Hey, Harry, this is Britt Montero, from the
News
.”

“No shit. I know who you are and where you're from.” He sounded sullen, as I had expected.

“Anything new on the Downtown Rapist?”

“Not for publication.”

I pretended not to hear. “Do you have a composite yet? What about a psychological profile?”

He answered with a question. “Any idea how much grief you've caused us?”

I hate that. “What do you mean, Harry?”

“TV is busting our balls! The Downtown Development Association is mad as hell.”

Each of the three new rapes since the original story had been reported in increasingly hysterical tones on TV.

“The Chamber of Commerce is calling the chief, he's busting the lieutenant's chops, and the lieutenant is busting ours. Feminist groups are hassling the mayor—and now you call, all sweet and innocent, and ask what's going on. You
know
what's going on, for Christ's sake; you started it!”

“Harry, nobody wants to see you catch this guy more than I do.”

“Oh, sure. Bet you'd love to see him locked up. How would you sell papers then?”

“This isn't about selling newspapers, Harry. You know that.” I tried to sound sincere and helpful. “Have you checked to see if maybe the same guy worked in more than one of those buildings?”

He sighed and replied grudgingly. “We're going through the personnel records now.”

“Anything?”

“It's not easy. Each building has a maintenance staff or a hired cleaning crew. Office cleaners come and go; records on those kinds of low-paying jobs aren't kept so good. Then each office has its own employees. They've got runners, messengers, delivery men, Fed Ex, UPS, all kinds of people coming and going.” The anger had faded from his voice, replaced by the weariness of a frustrated cop at a dead end.

“Odd that nobody but the victims has seen him. Must mean he blends into the woodwork. He either belongs there or looks like he belongs there.”

“Maybe he does.”

“Like a security guard?”

“We've looked at some of them.”

“What about recently paroled sex offenders? Or maybe one of the service companies hires prisoners on work release.”

“We're checking; no lack of them either.”

“What about the composite? The victims agree it looks like him?”

“Pretty much.”

I scribbled furiously in my notebook. This was the first official confirmation that a police artist drawing had been done.