You Only Die Twice (14 page)

“I thought she and her mother were very close.”

“Nah.” Amy frowned and plucked at her skirt. “I think Kaithlin was a change-of-life baby or something. Her mother was, like, older, strict, some kind of religious nut, absolutely dumpy and old-fashioned. Kaithlin had to wear all these positively stupid, freaking clothes the woman sewed. She never fit in with the rich kids at school until she started to mature. Then everybody wanted to hang with her.

“I was in the wedding, you know.” Amy's expressive eyes darkened. “She and R. J. were so blissed out, despite everything else that had happened.”

“Where did it go wrong?”

“They were definitely soulmates,” she responded vaguely. “So high on each other, like birds mating in flight. The sort of relationship that's made in heaven but can't survive on earth. Like, there must have been a shitload of bad karma to work out. Kaithlin said it would take them both to hell—and it did.”

“What about the baby?” I asked.

She stirred, eyes uneasy. “It was the baby,” she acknowledged, in a whisper. “It was all about the damn baby.

“A couple months before her seventeenth birthday, Kaithlin was late, afraid she was pregnant. Turned out she was right. She trusted him, but R. J. freaked at the news, said the baby probably wasn't his. I mean, Kaithlin was under age, still in high school. He didn't want anybody, especially his parents, to know. He backed off, dumped her. She didn't want her mother to know,
they'd already been fighting because of R. J., but there's no way to keep a pregnancy secret for long. When her mom went to see R. J., he called Kaithlin a lying tramp and walked away.”

Myrna Lewis's words about “sins only God can forgive” made sense now.

“What happened then?” I asked.

“Officially”—she shrugged—“Kaithlin missed a semester to take care of her sick mother. She had the baby but only saw him once, the day he was born. Her mother wouldn't let her keep him. She arranged a private adoption.

“Once the baby was out of the picture, R. J. started calling, trying to see her. He wouldn't stay away. Her mom threatened to have him arrested and Kaithlin committed to juvenile hall as incorrigible. It got really ugly. It was like Kaithlin was in prison, with her mother the warden. The day she turned eighteen, she and R. J. started to date openly and she went back to work at Jordan's. Her mother couldn't stop her then, though she tried.

“You almost had to feel sorry for the woman. It was like trying to stop a whirlwind with your bare hands.” Amy hugged her knees, face awash in memories.

“When did R. J. decide he wanted the baby back?”

“He didn't get on that kick until years later, after they were married. Like, his parents were hot for a grandson. It meant a lot of money to R. J. He was impatient, always wanted everything right now, couldn't figure out why Kaithlin didn't get pregnant.” Amy smirked. “She didn't trust him yet. I mean, she'd seen him in action the first time. She wanted a solid marriage
first, to know he'd hang in and be a decent father. She wanted to keep working, build a career, until he was ready. She never told him she was on the pill.

“But when Kaithlin didn't get pregnant, R. J. decided to take their baby back. He had the money and all to do it. But Kaithlin's mother refused to tell them any details about the adoption. R. J. went nuts, accused Kaithlin of knowing where the boy was and deliberately keeping him from his son, all kinds of shit like that. Poor Kaithlin knew nothing. She was a kid. Like, all she did was sign the paper her mother put in front of her.”

“A mess,” I said.

“Sure was.” Amy nodded slowly. “Her mom hated R. J. Guess it was her chance for payback, big time. R. J. hated her too. He was vindictive; it was all he thought about. Kaithlin got caught in the cross fire, all that hostility, negative energy, all those bad vibes.” Amy hunched her shoulders and shivered as she stared into the empty stone fireplace.

“Trapped between the two people she loved most,” I said.

“Right. They made her miserable. Like, her only joy was her job. She loved it. She was so good at it, she had a way with people, and it was her escape from a husband and a mother who wanted to kill each other.” She glanced up, eyes bright. “You know what I mean? Like, she threw herself into work to escape the pain in her personal life.”

Oh, I knew.

“What finally brought it all to a head?”

“She found out R. J. was seeing that Suarez woman.
A real slut. We even followed them one night in my car, saw them together. God only knows what else he did. He had it all, the cars, the boats, the plane. Nothing was enough. There were rumors, even in the newspaper, about missing money at Jordan's. Kaithlin suspected R. J. and some accountant friend he'd hired. But she knew in the end she'd be blamed. His parents would defend him. They always had, you know. He was blood; they always found somebody else to blame when he fouled up.”

I nodded, imagining how Kaithlin felt. She'd lost her relationship with her mother, she'd lost her baby, and she was on the verge of losing her marriage and her career.

“The day before she went to Daytona,” Amy was saying, “she said she had to make it work. I told her to bail. Like, the world is full of men. But she wanted to persuade R. J. and her mom to see a shrink with her. She'd tried before, but they'd both refused. She didn't like failure. When R. J. asked her to go away for the weekend, she went, to do whatever she had to to make it work.”

“You knew her best,” I said. “During that last call to you, from the motel, was she really frightened?”

“I offered to drive to damn Daytona to get her, and I didn't even have a decent car at the time,” Amy blurted, voice rising. “I would've rented one, or hailed a goddamn cab. That's how sure I was that he was out of control and she needed help.

“See”—she leaned forward, eyes plaintive—“we were always there for each other. Kaithlin would have done the same for me. That's the great thing about her.
Like, she never forgot her friends, never forgot her roots, always reached out to the underdog, always wanted to help other women. So what I want to know is, How could she just run off like that, never even call me to say she was okay? I was her best friend our whole lives.” Tears skidded down her pale cheeks.

“You knew her so well,” I said. “Where would she go?”

Amy wiped her eyes and lifted her shoulders. “She never talked about going anyplace else. Miami was home. She grew up here. All I know is she wanted to stay here and live a normal happy life.”

“Don't we all?” I said sadly.

“I made a lot of mistakes,” Amy said earnestly, tears still flowing, “and moved around a lot. But I'm enlightened, I finally found nirvana, the bliss I was seeking, right back where I started. Like, it was waiting here for me all along.”

“I'm glad.”

I was grateful that someone was happy and content with her life.

“Your husband lives here too?” I said, as she saw me to the door. “His name is Salazar?”

“No.” She looked vaguely troubled. “I think he's still in San Jose. I have a restraining order.”

I drove away on streets as dark and shadowy as the past. The woman I had so identified with
was
dead. I had seen her corpse. Why had I been so elated when for a moment Amy led me to believe that Kaithlin might still be alive? Utter madness or wishful thinking? At least I'd learned one of her secrets. Perhaps now the others would follow. If I could understand her and her demons, perhaps I could understand myself.

Miami's population, huge and uncountable, is swollen by tourists, fugitives, and undocumented illegal aliens. Yet Kaithlin and I had to have crossed paths many times. When we were growing up, those of us born and raised here, who lived in Miami year round, had not yet become lost in vast urban sprawl and dense downtown development. People our age frequented the same movie theaters, shopping centers, and skating
rinks. I had shopped at Jordan's, a local institution, and my mother worked there. I nearly joined her one year for a summer job, opting instead to intern at a small weekly, on the recommendation of my journalism teacher.

Kaithlin and I had surely seen each other, perhaps even spoken. We shared so much in common; both fatherless, raised under difficult circumstances by working mothers, we were both conflicted by love and work. But how could she walk away from family, friends, and career and simply disappear? Could I do that? I wondered.

Instead of taking the downtown exit, I accelerated, driving north to the old apartment house in North Miami, hoping she wasn't asleep.

“Mrs. Lewis,” I said into the squawk box, when she answered the bell, “it's Britt, from the
News
. I need to see you for a moment.”

She wore a tatty bathrobe and slippers, her thinning hair in plastic curlers.

“Did you bring back the picture?” she asked, blinking.

“No, sorry. It's on my desk. I'll mail it when I get back to the office.”

I answered the question in her eyes.

“I'm here to ask you about Kaithlin's baby.”

She grimaced and limped to the stove to light the burner under the ever-present teakettle. “What about him?” she asked brusquely.

“You knew?”

“Of course. I was Reva's best friend.”

“You didn't tell me when we talked.”

“I didn't know you knew.”

Was everybody in Miami suddenly practicing Don't ask, don't tell?

“I wish you had said something,” I told her, exasperated.

She faced me, the burnt-out match still clutched between arthritic fingers. “Reva asked me not to tell anyone.”

“But she's dead; so is Kaithlin.”

She looked startled. “Death doesn't mean you don't keep a secret. A promise is a promise.”

“But that information might have some bearing on the case,” I protested.

“It doesn't.”

“How do you know?” I said.

“It was too long ago,” she said, with a wave of derision. “It couldn't.”

“Knowledge is power,” I countered. “It helps to have all the facts.”

“Helps who? Your newspaper?” she challenged.

“When I was young, journalism was all about the five double-yews: Where, When, Why, What, and Who. Today it's about the gees: Garbage and Gossip.”

“You may be right to a degree,” I acknowledged bleakly, “a large degree. But not in my stories. Solving the murder is what's important.”

“Breaking promises won't help,” she said.

“Don't you value justice?”

“I do,” she said solemnly, and aimed a gnarled index finger at the cracked ceiling. “A greater justice.”

“But you have to admit it would be a comfort to see some here on earth.”

Her small smile conceded that much. “I dropped a hint,” she said, cocking her head, “when I told you some things can't be forgiven.”

“Sorry, I should have picked up on that sooner. So Reva took her revenge out on R. J. by refusing to reveal his son's whereabouts.”

“No!” she cried, taken aback, eyes wide in shock. “That's not how it was at all! I thought giving up her only grandchild would kill her. It nearly did. But she made the sacrifice because he deserved two responsible adult parents. What chance would he have had with a teenage mother and a playboy who denied being his father?

“She couldn't bear to watch Kaithlin sacrifice everything to raise a child alone. She had tried it, did everything any woman could do, and failed. She spent hours with the priest, seeking the strength and courage to give him away. He said adoption was best.”

“But she could have forced R. J. to pay child support. Hired a lawyer, called the Jordans…”

Myrna shook her head as she poured steaming water over fresh tea bags in cups for us both. It was chamomile. “The law didn't work for her, and she knew it wouldn't for Kaithlin. The Jordans were too powerful. She tried to talk to R. J., but he was crude and humiliated her. She had her pride. She always made her own way and never asked for help. It broke her heart to lose him, but Reva said her grandson went to a wonderful home.”

I stared down at my notebook. “But if it wasn't revenge, why wouldn't she help them find him?”

“Because, by the time R. J. changed his mind, there
was no baby anymore,” she said indignantly. “He would have been a little boy in school. Six years old. You don't uproot a child, take him from the only family he knows. You don't do that to the parents who love him. How could Reva let R. J. change his mind on a whim? What if he changed it again later? You can't play with human life that way.”

“So Reva was protecting the boy?”

“Her grandson, at all costs,” she said solemnly. “She destroyed the paperwork on the adoption so it would never be found. If something happened to her, she didn't want her grandson's life ever disrupted by strangers with briefcases. Later, she suspected that was why R. J. killed Kaithlin, to take her child away, the way he accused her of taking his son. I can't tell you all the times she sat right where you're sitting, crying her eyes out.”

I closed my eyes as the image evoked a shiver. “Do you remember Amy Hastings?” I asked. “She testified at the trial.”

“Kaithlin's little friend.” Myrna nodded. “Always had their heads together, whispers and giggles. Not as smart or as pretty as Kaithlin, but she promised she'd stay close to Reva afterward, even swore she'd be her surrogate daughter, because they'd both loved Kaithlin. I thought she might be a comfort, but after the trial Reva never heard from her again. Not a call, not so much as a Christmas card. She was a flighty little thing. Ditzy, if you ask me.”

 

I drove along Biscayne Boulevard, bathed in the cozy glow of anti-crime lights, wondering why everyone but
her own husband felt loyal to Kaithlin. Back at the office, I went to the trial transcript and found the address of the condo R. J. had bought for Dallas Suarez, the mistress who later testified against him. Beachfront, in Key Biscayne. No phone listed for her there, or anywhere else in Miami-Dade. The high-flying adventuress and flight instructor could be anywhere by now, I thought. Her public image at the time of the trial was that of a sensation seeker, an expert pilot, diver, and skier who also thrived on the thrills of illicit romance. I got out the trusty city directory. The building had only twenty-five units on five floors. I lied through my teeth, posing as an old friend in search of a long-lost chum.

“She's my neighbor!” trilled the first woman I spoke to. “She's still here! Married now, to a lovely guy. Lives here with her husband. Want me to tell her you called?”

“No, please don't.” I checked the time. Too late to drop by tonight. “I want to surprise her.”

I called Eunice, but her answering service picked up. I left messages for her and R. J., then addressed an envelope to Myrna Lewis. Before dropping the photo of little Kaithlin and her mother in the outgoing mail, I again studied Reva Warren's solemn face and plain appearance, in contrast to Kaithlin's lively beauty and mischievous charm. Who would believe they were mother and daughter? When had I thought that before?

I checked my mailbox and found a copy of the art department's sketch of Kaithlin, along with a glossy page torn from a catalog. The sketch was excellent. To my dismay, the salmon-pink bridesmaid dress on the catalog page appeared iridescent, with flounces, the bustle far larger than I had imagined.

“Don'tcha love it?” Rooney startled me, peering over my shoulder.

“Don't ever sneak up on me like that again!” I protested.

“Sorry,” he said, his expression wounded. “I thought you saw me.”

I sighed. “How are Angel and the kids?”

“Great,” he said, his grin returning. “We thought the baby was coming the other night, but—false alarm.” He focused on the page in my hand. “Misty already got her dress.”

“This one?” I asked, hoping to be wrong.

“She loves it. Angel says she looks adorable.”

Damn, I thought, too late now to change Angel's mind.

“You might think it's silly for us to be having a nice church wedding now. You know,” he said self-consciously, “with the kids and all. But it's my first time and Angel never had one. Her parents signed for her to get married the first time and some clerk down at the marriage license bureau officiated. She was only a kid, didn't even have a flower to hold.

“This time,” he said, dreamy-eyed, “is special. It's for good.” His smile wasn't the usual goofy grin. It was almost appealing.

 

I checked the library on the way out, surprised to find Onnie still working. The lenses in her computer glasses glowed green as she squinted at the screen.

“Got involved,” she explained, her smile tight. “Called my sister to give Darryl his supper and put him to bed.”

“Find anything promising?”

“Lord have mercy.” She pushed away from the screen, her expression weary. “I never knew how many folks disappeared, or wanted to. Forget milk cartons. I've got enough right here to print them on toilet paper, a new face on every square. You 'member that big, fiery, high-speed rail crash in London a while back? The death toll started out high 'cause of all the passengers missing and presumed dead. It dwindled after they cut apart the molten wreckage and the bodies weren't there.”

I looked at her quizzically.

“Where were they?” she asked, blinking up at me, her coal-black eyes intent. “I mean, if you narrowly escaped a deadly disaster, what would you do first?”

“Have sex,” I said truthfully, “maybe a stiff drink, kiss the ground, hug loved ones, say a prayer, call the newspaper. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Me too,” she agreed, nodding thoughtfully, “'cept maybe for the sex.”

“Trust me,” I said.

“Is that experience talking?” She coyly arched an eyebrow. “You'd think all of the above,” she went on, when I did not answer, “but noooooo. Weeks, months after the crash, there were sightings of people presumed dead and gone. Turns out dozens of commuters seized the moment and made a run for it, to disappear and launch new lives under new names.”

I pulled up a chair and read the story on her screen. “Amazing,” I said, “how many people are willing to walk away from everything in a heartbeat.”

When disaster struck, as fellow commuters died, survivors didn't run for help, they just ran, to shed their pasts as snakes do their skin. They saw misfortune as an escape route. That crash was accidental. How many others deliberately create their own disaster? Maybe Kaithlin was ahead of her time.

 

I drove home, the radio off, the windows open to the serenade of boat whistles, wind, and night birds on the causeway.

The courtyard patio was dark, the exterior light burned out. A car door slammed somewhere on the street behind me, and I picked up my pace. I usually have house keys in hand before leaving the car, but this time, my mind cluttered, I wasn't thinking. I groped hurriedly for the keys as quick footsteps gained on me.

I had warned my landlady and fellow tenants about a recent rash of nighttime robberies, motorists followed home and accosted at their own front doors. I had urged caution, then failed to heed my own advice.

I glanced fearfully over my shoulder. A man moved fast through the shadows, directly toward me. Too late to find the key. I flung my open purse into the thick shrubbery, scattering the contents, then whirled to face him, heart pounding.

“You son-of-a-bitch! Don't even think about it! Get the hell out of here!”

He stopped short. “What's wrong?” he said. “Britt? Are you mad at me?”

Lights bloomed in other apartments. Inside mine, Bitsy yapped frantically, hurling herself at the door.

He stepped closer.

“Oh, jeez,” I said. “Help me find my keys before somebody calls the cops.”

We were on all fours in the bushes retrieving my possessions when Mr. Goldstein appeared in pajamas, brandishing a baseball bat in his best Mark McGwire imitation. His wife, close behind him in her bathrobe, waved her broom.

“Careful, Hy, he might have a gun! Britt, are you all right?”

“He's one of the good guys,” I said, embarrassed. Fitzgerald apologetically explained that he was delivering my overnight bag, which he had tracked down from the airline.

We said good night, went inside, gazed at each other, and grinned. “So that's how you welcome visitors. No wonder you're not married.”

“Sorry, I thought you were a robber.”

“Well, you scared the bejesus out of me. I was ready to assume the position, spread my legs, and give you my wallet.”

“Keep the wallet,” I said, and walked into his arms.

“I know you have somebody,” he murmured, voice husky in my ear.

“Where'd you hear that?”

He stopped kissing me long enough for his lips to shape the word. “Emery.”

“He's got a big mouth.”

We stayed stitched together at the lips for several minutes. “I'll make some coffee,” I said, pushing him away as we came up for air.