Miami Noir (30 page)

Shaking her head, Kathy said, “Rick was pretending to be very good. I don’t know if Howard believed him or not. I don’t care. Please. Can we go? I’m so tired.”

Charlene turned the key. “Sara, you ride over there with us. I’ll bring you back.” Headlights made a brilliant wash of white on the street. It was raining again, and the wipers moved silently across the glass. Charlene turned onto Brickell, a leafy canyon of bank buildings and million-dollar apartments. Banyan trees and royal palms divided the street. A short bridge took us onto Brickell Key, and out of habit I studied the cars behind us as we waited in line at the visitors’ gate.

“Howard didn’t kill her son. It was me.”

Charlene and I looked simultaneously at Kathy Zaden.

Her lips barely moved. “He wasn’t driving. I was.”

A horn sounded, and Charlene moved forward. Kathy twisted her tissue into a rope and started tearing pieces off the end of it. “We were having an argument. I wasn’t watching the road, and then I heard this loud…
thump
. I stopped the car and we got out. Howard was a doctor. I was screaming for him to do something. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. ‘He’s dead. Can’t you see he’s dead?’”

Charlene pulled her eyes off Kathy long enough to give the guard the name of her friend in the condo.

“A truck came along with workers in the back. Howard told them he’d been driving and the man walked right in front of him. I didn’t say anything. I went back to our car and just sat there. I didn’t open my mouth.”

The gate arm rose, and Charlene moved at a slow speed toward the entrance of the Atlantica. She idled in the drive-way

“I had nightmares. I could hear the body hitting the car, then flying up and shattering the windshield, and the blood everywhere. Howard gave me some antidepressants, and I was okay, until Carmen Sánchez showed up.”

A uniformed valet waited under the bright lights of the portico.

Kathy said, “We’re here.”

Charlene pulled to the curb and pressed the trunk release. The valet opened the passenger side door, then hurried to get Kathy’s suitcase. I stood by the car. Charlene took Kathy into the lobby. Through the glass doors I saw them embrace.

When Charlene came back, she got in the passenger side. “You drive. I want a drink. I want a drink bad.”

We went to a quiet Cuban bar on West Flagler where for under $10 you could get a draft beer and a pretty good grouper sandwich. You could also smoke without getting cursed at. We found a booth in the back, and I gave Charlene one of my cigarettes when she held up two fingers.

She was on her third scotch and soda before either of us said anything about Howard Zaden’s murder. I told her I wanted to find Rosario Cardona.

“What for? You need your tarot cards read?”

“No, I’d like to know why she advised Dr. Zaden to let Carmen Sánchez come to his house. The woman was obviously unstable. It was like letting a rabid dog in the house.”

“Rosario Cardona was wrong.”

“Wrong? Oh, come on, Charlene. She’s a fraud. She rents out by the hour to read palms at parties. They’re all frauds.”

“No, they aren’t. I’ve had my palm read. She said I’d have a younger lover within the year, and I did.” Charlene set her elbow on the table and dragged in some smoke. She let it out slowly through an
O
of red lipstick. “You think someone paid her to set Dr. Zaden up? That’s far-fetched.”

“Probably.”

“Let’s just hope it wasn’t Kathy.”

The Yellow Pages listed two dozen psychics in the Miami area, but only one called Rosario. No address, but the phone number indicated an area about four miles west of Dr. Zaden’s clinic in Coral Gables, convenient enough. The flowery border of the ad encompassed a sketch of a woman’s hand holding a crystal ball and the name
Rosario
floating above it. Underneath she listed her specialties:
Horoscope forecast. Crystal energy. Healing. Specialist in auras. Palm and tarot card readings. Call today for a better tomorrow. Private and confidential. Over 15 yrs. exper.
At the bottom, a pair of scissors and dotted lines made a coupon:
$25 off first visit.

When I called, I heard wooden flute music, then a female voice telling me, in English then in Spanish, that Rosario regretted not being available, but if I would leave my number…

I requested an appointment as soon as possible, and she called back an hour later and agreed to see me at 10 o’clock the next morning. It would cost me a hundred dollars.

I Xeroxed the page and clipped out the coupon.

Rosario Cardona’s studio was in a tree-lined warehouse district with rows of small shops and tree-shaded parking. I drove past open bays of unpainted wooden furniture, racks of clothing, and bright pottery, the sort of stuff that comes from China or Mexico in containers, to be grabbed by Miami Latinas hunting for a bargain.

She had told me to enter through number 8750-B. I parked and went into La Couture Shoes, specializing in knockoffs of $500 designer names with skinny straps, fiveinch heels, and polka-dots, the kind of footwear that requires a professional pedicure. When a saleslady approached, I pointed at the stairs going up the left side of the shop.

Rosario rented the second floor. She didn’t have a sign on the street, so I assumed the landlord didn’t know. The stairs led to a door painted dark green. On the wall somebody had hung a framed print of a naked angel with long blond hair and golden wings, flying through pink clouds with a crystal ball in her hand.

The door opened, revealing a petite, dark-eyed woman in jeans, high-heeled boots, and a silky white shirt. Her hair was in a ponytail, and gold circles hung from her ears. She looked to be about thirty-five, younger than I’d expected. She had all the sexuality of a porcelain doll, but I could see how a man of fifty might keep coming back.

“Ms. Morales?” Bracelets tinkled softly as she took my hand. “Come in.”

My eyes had to adjust to the dim light. The room was about twenty feet square, with a painted concrete floor and area rugs. Candles flickered from wall sconces, shelves, and low tables. A brass chandelier with a dimmer on low hung from the midnight-blue ceiling. Wind chimes turned in front of the air vents, and water splashed in a rock fountain. There were display cases with crystals, oils, candleholders, and packaged sticks of incense; a revolving rack of greeting cards with angels, unicorns, and Native Americans; shelves of CDs and books.

A glance to my left revealed a fringed curtain, behind which the spiritual advising took place. The whole setup reminded me of La Botánica Lukumí, around the corner from my parents’ house, which I swear my grandmother had singlehandedly kept in business.

Rosario Cardona’s eyes rested on mine, unblinking. “You didn’t come for a reading, did you?”

I took a business card out of my shoulder bag. “I’m working for Kathy Zaden. I don’t know if you heard the news yesterday about her husband, Dr. Howard Zaden. He was one of your clients.”

“Yes, I heard about it.” Rosario set my card on the low table that held the fountain. “What a terrible tragedy. I am so sorry for Mrs. Zaden.”

“We’re trying to understand what happened. You knew him. If I could just ask you a few questions—”

“You know, I could have taken another appointment, but I made room for you.” She shook her head when I went for my wallet. “No. You should have told me, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Please take it.” I put five twenties on the table next to my card. “I should have told you.” And if you were for real, I said silently to myself, you’d have known. “Can we sit down?”

She was still giving me a look you couldn’t get through with an ice pick. “I’m sorry. I don’t discuss my clients.”

“Dr. Zaden is dead.”

A couple of seconds ticked by. She said, “Transformed.” Her voice was as soft as the glass wind chimes tinkling overhead. “We use the word ‘dead,’ but the dead are still with us.”

I started over. “His wife blames herself for letting Carmen Sánchez into their house. Carmen Sánchez is the woman—“

“Yes, the story was in the
Herald
this morning.”

“Kathy just needs to understand what happened. You advised Dr. Zaden to let Carmen Sánchez come pick up a check to settle her claims. Could you tell me why?”

I listened to the splash of water until Rosario took a breath, let it out. “All right. I’ll talk to you.”

She led me farther into the room, to an overstuffed sofa with wine-colored cushions and a cat curled up on one of them. I saw a woman in the corner. Candles flickered on her pale face, her red lips, her stiff hands. In the next instant I saw a mannequin dressed like a Spanish dancer in a black-lace mantilla.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

Rosario smiled up at me from the sofa. “Her name is Fátima. She’s my gypsy. She isn’t real, in the ordinary sense of the word, but she guides me. Please, have a seat.”

The cat wasn’t real either. It was one of those stuffed things made out of rabbit fur. Rosario set it on the coffee table. At least she didn’t pet it.

“Dr. Zaden came to me and asked what he should do about Carmen Sánchez. I said that he needed to free himself, and if he had to pay, so be it. We did some cleansing rituals, and I gave him some oils for protection.” She lowered her lashes. “I make no claim to perfect vision. I don’t always see the outcome. Tell his wife…Tell her that I am sorry.”

I’m usually pretty good at reading people, but I didn’t know if Rosario Cardona was real or as phony as her friend Fátima. “Did Dr. Zaden ever talk about his next-door neighbor, Ian Morris?”

“Yes. They had some problems. He and I tried to resolve them.” Rosario cocked her head as if puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

“Did Dr. Zaden ever say that Mr. Morris had talked to Carmen Sánchez, or that Mr. Morris knew how to reach her?”

“No. I can’t remember Dr. Zaden saying anything about that. Why?”

“You know Rick Zaden, Dr. Zaden’s son.”

“Yes, of course. I did a reading for him once, but that was before his father became my steady client. I don’t read for people in the same family. There could be conflicts.”

“Did Rick ever mention Carmen Sánchez to you?”

“No. I haven’t seen Rick in a long time.” Rosario Cardona lifted her brows. “These are strange questions. What is it you’re looking for, Sara?”

I had the sensation of walking on a moving sidewalk going the wrong way, losing ground. The sofa faced a long table piled with the implements of a
Santera
: strands of colored beads, a vase of feathers, a drum. Tall glass candleholders for San Lazaro, Santa Barbara, San Antonio. I saw a flat can of lighter fluid and a long butane lighter, and I remembered my grandmother dancing around a circle of flames. I’d been in the middle of the circle on my knees.

As the air conditioner cycled on, the wind chimes tinkled softly and the candles flickered at the gypsy’s feet.

I said, “I’d like to know why Dr. Zaden died. I don’t think it’s as simple as it appears.”

She nodded slowly, not that she agreed with me, but that she understood. “Why does it have to be complicated? Most things aren’t. A woman was grieving for her son. She wanted justice. She wanted the blood of the man who killed him—”

“Howard Zaden didn’t kill him,” I said without thinking, then added, “I suppose he told you.”

“Yes. Kathy is responsible. And now she suffers. Carmen Sánchez got her justice. You see? It’s simple. The universe knows what it’s doing.”

I stood up, wanting to get out of there. “Thank you for your time.”

Rosario said, “Please take your money back. I haven’t earned it.”

“Keep it.”

As we walked to the door, she lifted her hand and held it close to my neck, not touching my skin, but I could feel the heat. “You’re very tense. Wait.” She went over to the display case and returned with a small brown glass bottle. “This is lavender oil, very good for tension, for headaches and sleeplessness. Take it with my compliments.”

She held onto my hand and came closer. Her eyes were huge, outlined in black. “I see…I see loss. I see grief.”

“What?”

“Was it a child?”

“Not mine. I never had any children.”

“But I do feel something, Sara. A death. There was a child, and it’s gone. You suffered from this loss.”

I dropped the little bottle into my purse. “That’s news to me.”

“Well, all I can tell you is what I feel. Someone died. A girl, I think. Maybe a young relative? The child of a friend?”

“You’re fishing, Ms. Cardona.”

With a smile, she crossed to the door and opened it. “Goodbye, Sara. If you would ever like me to do a reading for you, please call.”

I held on tightly to the railing on the way down, a habit I’d developed since my fall. Or maybe it was that my legs were trembling. I got halfway and leaned against the wall to catch my breath.

Rosario Cardona talked to a mannequin named Fátima. She had a stuffed cat and she believed in spirits. Bullshit. Total bullshit. So how had she known? When I’d fallen down the stairs chasing the suspect, I’d been two months pregnant and trying to decide what to do about it. I lost the baby. Nobody knew. No one, not even my mother.

The idea that Rosario Cardona knew made me queasy.

She hadn’t known, she’d guessed. She’d read my body language, picked up a clue in my reaction.

Simple.

As simple as the reason for Howard Zaden’s murder. He was dead because Carmen Sánchez had decided on her own to seek justice.

But I had no faith that Bill Nance would see it that way

It took me the rest of the day to track down the owner of the red Toyota. He was a cook at a Nicaraguan restaurant in East Little Havana. The police had already been there. They had his car. He didn’t know Carmen Sánchez, except from the restaurant. The food was cheap, and she came in a lot. She had given him $50 to use his car for a few hours. She had seemed very nice, but she had murdered a man.
¡Qué barbaridad!
The cook didn’t know her, not at all, no. He’d only loaned her his car, and he wanted it back. The police were thieves. He thought that Señora Sánchez had lived in the pink apartments on Southwest 1st Street.

It was a two-story, stucco-over-frame building, twelve studio units built in the 1920s, when Miami was growing past the river. A ranchero tune came through open glass jalousies. I took the concrete steps to a door with a security screen. It wasn’t locked. The dim hallway went straight through, and stairs turned toward the second floor.