Hot Schemes (11 page)

“Any news?” she asked.

“Nothing. I talked to Tío Pedro and he said there was nothing on the national news or the local news about any kind of guerrilla excursion into Cuba. If that’s where Miguel was headed, he arrived safely and without being detected or he is still adrift in those damnable straits.” He regarded Molly with a bleak expression. “Who knows how long he can survive out there.”

“Those boys were at sea for six days, two of those days without water or food,” Molly reminded him.

“But as you said, they are boys. Miguel is an old man. And I saw for myself that his provisions remained on his boat. More and more I am convinced he was forced onto that raft. Perhaps he was intentionally cast adrift to die.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice tight with frustration. “But I would bet my life that Paredes is the key.”

“Maybe Felipe and Ken will have some answers,” Molly said as they turned into Michael’s townhouse development.

Sure enough, both policemen were sitting on the front steps of Michael’s condominium. For the first time Molly had a chance to study them more closely. In the chaos of the previous night she had gathered only vague impressions.

Ken Marshall looked to be in his late thirties, though there was already a lot of gray in his curly brown hair. His hazel eyes were unflinching. She had seen for herself that it was a quietly intelligent gaze that could be both compassionate and unnerving. Perhaps that intensity was what made him such an outstanding evidence technician. She could believe that absolutely nothing got past him.

Felipe Domínguez was his opposite in many ways. Short, while Ken was tall, mischievous, while Ken was serious, Felipe had the square build of a boxer and the attitude of a street fighter.

At the moment they were engaged in an obviously intense discussion. Their expressions turned even more sober at the sight of Michael. Inside, over the promised pizza and beer, they offered little new information.

“We have bits and pieces from the boat,” Ken said. “But nothing at all of the bomb.” He glanced at Molly. “Felipe and I have been trying to remember any details from that quick look we took. We’re coming up blank. Can you recall anything at all about what you saw?”

“I heard it. I didn’t get a good look at it. It sounded like a standard wind-up clock.”

Ken’s gaze narrowed. “Why wind-up?”

“The ticking,” she said immediately and without a doubt. “When I was a kid, I had an inexpensive clock that made that same sound by my bed. Electric and digital clocks make a quieter sound, if they make any noise at all.”

“She’s right,” Felipe said. “It sounded like the clock I picked up at the drugstore when our electric clock died a few weeks ago.” He paused a minute, then added, “Like that clock the crocodile swallowed in
Peter Pan.”

“Terrific,” Michael muttered. “The timing device could have been bought in any one of hundreds of chain drugstores around town. That really narrows things way the hell down.”

Ken regarded him sympathetically. “Hey, pal, I know you’re frustrated, but what Molly said comes as no surprise. For all the talk of training exercises and stuff, we’re not talking a high-tech military operation here. We’re probably not even talking about professional international terrorists. I’d guess this was somebody with an ax to grind and one of those primitive but effective how-to-stir-up-insurrection manuals. Back when people were bombing the hell out of the homes and businesses of anyone they thought was soft on Fidel, they weren’t using plastique and that fancy garbage. What they came up with was crude, but it did the job.”

“Which brings us back to Paredes and people like him,” Michael said, glancing at Felipe. “What did you learn on the streets?”

“I got a lot of shock, a lot of outrage, and not one single lead. When I mentioned Paredes and his organization, a few people looked very nervous but denied knowing of any connection.”

“Were they lying?” Michael asked.

Felipe shrugged. “My gut tells me yes. Could I prove it? No way.”

Michael shoved his hands through his hair and exchanged a look with the two policemen. “So where the hell does that leave us?”

Ken leaned forward. “I do have one idea. I’ve got some time coming.”

“Forget it,” Michael said.

Ken continued as if he hadn’t spoken, his expression determined. “I could take leave for the next day or two and do a little diving out where the boat blew up. Maybe I’ll find something the others missed.”

Michael shook his head. “No way.” At a scowl from Molly, he modified his harsh response. “Thanks, but you know those guys combed the bottom for whatever was big enough to be recognizable. I don’t want you wasting your leave time like that. You’ve got a wife and kid who’d never forgive me if your vacation time comes up short.”

Ken shrugged. “Hell, you know Teri. She loves to dive even more than I do. She’ll be thrilled to have an unexpected excuse to take our boat out in the middle of the week.”

“Don’t you suppose she’d rather be checking out a coral reef?” Michael asked.

Ken grinned. “I’ll explain that this is more challenging.”

“Are you sure you want to spend your time off this way?” Michael asked again, his voice filled with doubt. For the first time, though, it also held a wavering hint of hope.

“A boat, a sunny day, my wife in a bikini, a couple of beers,” Ken replied. “Does life get any better than that?”

“No, I suppose not,” Michael agreed. He held out his hand and clasped Ken’s. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. I’ll give you a call as soon as I work out the details.”

“So what can I do?” Felipe asked. “I’d take leave time, too, but you know I use it as fast as I accumulate it.”

Ken rolled his eyes. “He means that every time he gets a hot date, he can’t drag himself out of bed to leave her. The time sheets tell the story of his love life.”

Felipe muttered something in Spanish that definitely didn’t sound complimentary, but both Ken and Michael were laughing. Felipe glanced at Molly. “Excuse them. Neither of them understand how demanding it is to be both single and sexy,” he said, his eyes glinting with pure mischief.

“I’m single,” Michael reminded him.

Felipe shrugged. “But sexy? That is a matter of opinion.”

Michael turned toward Molly. She held up her hands. “No comment.”

“Et tu, Brute?” he
said. “You will pay for that,
amiga.”

“I didn’t realize my role here was to stroke your ego,” Molly retorted.

“Perhaps we should discuss precisely what your role here is,” Michael replied, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“Uh-oh,” Ken said, standing up. “Come on, Felipe. Let some other cop get called to deal with this domestic disturbance. I want no part of it.”

“No disturbance,” Michael said mildly.

“And it’s not domestic,” Molly chimed in, her cheeks flaming.

The two cops exchanged glances. Felipe held a hand over his stomach. “My very reliable gut thinks we’ve got two people here who are protesting too much.”

Molly suddenly wondered if it might not be a very good idea to ask if she could hitch a ride home. The gleam in Michael’s eyes stopped her before the words could form.

When both men had beat a hasty exit, Michael strolled back into the living room. He reached out and clasped Molly’s hand, hauling her to her feet. He didn’t let go until she was mere inches away, so close, in fact, that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. His gaze clashed with hers.

“So,
amiga
, you think I am not sexy?”

“I didn’t say that.” “Oh?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then you think I am sexy?”

“I think you are deliberately trying to intimidate a witness.”

“You’re no witness. You’re the perpetrator here.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s the crime?”

“Lying under oath.”

Molly glanced around. “No judge. No jury. No Bible. I’d say you have no case, mister.”

He gave her a wry look and laced his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck. Very slowly he drew her toward him. Only when Molly thought she would never catch her breath again did he slant his mouth over hers.

She had to admit, as she tried to prevent herself from swaying straight into his arms, that it was a very expert kiss. One of the best, in fact. She was also determined that Michael would never, not in a million years, badger that admission out of her. It was, of course, okay with her if he wanted to kiss her from now until doomsday in an attempt to torture the words from her.

The shrill sound of the phone finally forced them apart. From her perspective, it was probably a very timely interruption.

“Yes, what?” Michael demanded gruffly, one arm still looped around her waist as he talked to the caller.

Molly couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away. That was probably why she was so quick to note the sudden alertness in his eyes and the tightening of his jaw.

“I’m on my way,” he said, already reaching for his gun and jacket as he hung up.

Molly grabbed her purse and raced out the door after him. Apparently he’d expected her to follow automatically, because he never said a single thing to encourage or protest it. Not until they were in his car and pulling out of the driveway into the traffic on Kendall did she ask where they were going.

“To the paper.”

“Why?”

“That was your pal Ted Ryan. He says there are about fifty protesters in front of the building, trying to prevent the delivery trucks from going out.

“Why did he call you?” “Because someone down there said these guys are all followers of Paredes.”

Even at eleven at night there was still plenty of traffic to contend with between Kendall and downtown. Though Michael drove like a cop after a speeding suspect, it took them close to thirty minutes before they squealed around a corner and screeched to a stop a half block away from the paper.

Just as Ted Ryan had told Michael, protesters blocked the streets leading into and away from the loading dock. The paper’s trucks, parked in solid rows along the street and in an adjacent lot, were effectively prevented from leaving the area. The signs carried by the relatively small group of protesters were in Spanish and in English. Those Molly could read protested the unfairness of the paper’s coverage. It was a fairly general and oft-repeated charge.

As they left the car, Michael glanced at her. “Why don’t you see if you can hook up with Ryan and see what this is all about? I’m going to try to blend in and see what I can learn from the protesters.”

Molly didn’t think there was much chance that Michael, still wearing his usual designer suit and expensive shirt, could actually blend in with what at first glance looked to be a ragtag band of aging male picketers, many of whom were wearing military fatigues and waving Cuban flags. Still, with his dark complexion, brown eyes, and dark hair, there was no mistaking that Hispanic blood ran in his veins. Maybe that would be enough to loosen tongues.

She wandered closer, finally selecting a car right at the edge of the protest and leaning against the front bumper. From that vantage point, she realized that there was more diversity among those picketing than she had originally thought. She caught sight of at least three younger men, clad in dress pants, shirts, and ties, and several women who also looked like young professionals. The broader cross-section of the exile community surprised her. Maybe Ted Ryan would be able to explain it.

She figured it would be only a matter of minutes before he spotted her. The reporter tended to zero in on her like a homing pigeon. Usually, though, he was after information. Tonight Molly intended to turn the tables. She found she was actually looking forward to transforming a member of the aggressive media into a source. In her job at the film office she so rarely had a chance to make that happen. Vince insisted on a lot of bowing and scraping.

As she’d anticipated, she saw Ted Ryan circle the perimeter of the protesters, pause for a minute under a streetlamp to jot down some notes, then gaze up and down the street. The instant he spotted her, he headed in her direction. His boyish grin widened as he reached her. He looked more like an amiable Clark Kent than a determined Mike Wallace, but Molly knew firsthand that in his case looks were deceiving. Ted had the tenacity of a pit bull.

“I saw O’Hara a minute ago,” he said. “I figured you wouldn’t be far away.” He regarded her intently. “Just how close are you two these days?” he asked with an unusual hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“I like to think of it as a partnership,” Molly said dryly. “My guess is Michael would call it something else.”

The reporter seemed even more disconcerted by the comment. “A partnership as in wedding bells?”

“No, as in investigative colleagues.”

There was no mistaking the look of relief in Ted’s eyes, which confirmed what Michael had been telling Molly for some time: Ted Ryan might have the teeniest little crush on her. Until this instant, Molly had dismissed it as hogwash. Apparently, though, this was the one thing territorial males were capable of sensing instinctively about other men. Since she wasn’t prepared to deal with whatever personal interest Ted might have in her, she changed the subject quickly.

“Thanks for calling Michael with the tip about the demonstration. Why did you?”

The reporter accepted the shift in topic almost gratefully. “Don’t credit me with being too magnanimous. He’s always in the middle of the hottest cases in town. I figured one of these days he’ll return the favor and give me a break on a story. Besides, something tells me this protest and what happened to his uncle can’t be coincidence.”

“Meaning?”

“His uncle worked for circulation, delivering the papers. The last time anyone saw him, as far as we know, was when he met his route supervisor to get the Sunday edition. Now, just two nights later, we’ve got the makings of a big-time brouhaha on our front lawn involving what appears to be the same group of exiles in which García was involved.”

Molly pointed to the picket signs. “What exactly do they think is unfair about the paper’s coverage?”