Miami Blues (10 page)

Freddy counted off a thousand dollars and pushed the rest of the money across the table. "Here." He folded the bills in half and put the roll into his right front pocket. "Take the rest of the money and stash it in a safe place somewhere in the apartment."

Freddy turned at the door. "One other thing. Call a locksmith and have him come out and put a deadbolt lock on the door. These push-button locks are engraved invitations for burglars."

"I already checked on deadlocks, and they cost more than sixty dollars. Is that all right? To pay that much, I mean?"

Freddy pointed to the stack of money on the table. "What would you rather lose? Sixty dollars, or all of that?" He pushed in the button on the doorknob, and closed the door gently behind him as he left.

Susan, slightly dazed, opened the refrigerator, stared into its depths for a moment, closed the door, took a roll of toilet paper out of the grocery sack, looked at it, dropped it back inside, started toward the bathroom, changed her mind, and then ran swiftly to the South Miami telephone book and turned to the Yellow Pages.

10

Hoke Moseley and Bill Henderson sat close together on a pink silk loveseat in the living room of 11K, a townhouse in the Tahitian Village. Two-bedroom townhouses in the Tahitian Village started at $189,000, and the owners of this three-bedroom townhouse had also put out a good deal of money for the Latin Baroque furnishings. There were twisted, ornate bars on all of the downstairs windows. The interior color scheme was predominantly purple and rose. The wall-to-wall carpeting was richly purple, and the color was echoed without subtlety in the violet velvet draperies. The thick draperies hung in deep folds from two-headed iron spears in the living and dining rooms.

In the purple living room, two men, definitely Latins, with their hands and feet bound with copper wire, were face down on the floor. They had both been shot in the back of the head, and their faces were unrecognizable. A dark-haired young woman wearing a black-and-white maid's uniform, complete with a white frilly cap, had been shot in the hallway that led to the kitchen. Her hands and feet were also bound with copper wire. A small boy, two, or possibly three years old, had been shot in the head, but the child did not have his hands and feet bound. He was in the sunken bathtub in the rose-tiled bathroom on the second floor.

There was considerable activity in the townhouse. The forensic crew was busy. Two technicians were dusting for fingerprints, and another man was taking flash photographs from various angles. The ME, Dr. Merle Evans, was sitting at the glass-topped wrought-iron table in the dining room and writing notes on his clipboard.

The lady of the house, who had been out shopping at the Kendall Lakes Mall, said that she had returned to find her husband, her brother, the boy, and her maid dead. A Colombian with only rudimentary English, she had become hysterical. When he arrived, Doc Evans had given her a shot and sent her in an ambulance to the American Hospital emergency room.

After a quick initial look at the scene, Hoke Moseley and Bill Henderson had knocked on the nearby doors in the Tahitian Village, dividing up the townhouses, asking questions, and now they were comparing notes.

"No one I talked to," Henderson said, "heard or saw anything."

"I didn't do any better. These people here apparently kept to themselves, and I couldn't find anyone who knew or talked to them. They spoke Spanish and nothing else. Sometimes, in the morning, the maid took the little boy to the pool, but the adults never used the pool. And that's where the people of this complex get acquainted. A Colombian corporation, the manager told me, owns this townhouse, pays all the bills and the maintenance, and people just come and go. When they come, they've got a letter in Spanish authorizing their stay, and he hands over the keys. When they leave, one of them returns the keys. He's never had any trouble with any of the tenants, he claims. They're always nice, quiet tenants, or so he says."

"Did he have their names?"

"No. The letter he showed me just said to admit the bearers for an extended stay. I don't read Spanish, but he does, and that's what the letter said."

"He wouldn't lie about something like that," Henderson said, "but we can check it out, anyway. There had to be at least four shots, but no one heard even one. I can't get over that."

"Maybe it's a good thing they didn't hear the shots and come running out. Chances are, they'd be dead, too."

"Somebody had to hear something. They just don't want to get involved, that's all."

Doc Evans joined them. "They've been dead about two hours. That may not be exact, but from the body temperatures, I'm not far off."

Hoke nodded. "That coincides with what the woman said. She was gone for about two hours, and they were all alive when she left. I hope you can find some evidence of heroin when you open 'em up, doe. There's no dope in the apartment. Without some indication of dope, we can't say positively that the killings are drug-related. We can say that we think they are, but that isn't the same. If they're dope-related, nobody gives a shit, but if this was a murder-robbery, all these folks living out here'll get panicky."

"It's obviously a professional job," Doc said. "Too bad about the kid, though. At his age, he couldn't've identified anybody anyway."

"Colombian drug families are like that, doc," Henderson said. "They kill everyone in the family. They have to do it. If they hadn't killed the boy, someday, as a man, he'd kill them. When can I talk to the woman at the hospital?"

"Any time. She'll be a little dopey, but she can talk now. Why?"

"I've got a theory. I think she knew the killers. I also think they killed these people here, and then she drove them to the airport to catch a plane. Then she drove back here to report the bodies. As soon as she knew they were safely away, she called the department."

"Jesus, Bill," Hoke said, "you don't seriously believe that a mother would help the killers of her own child get away, do you?"

"Well, how do we know it's her child? Life is cheap for those fuckers in Colombia. They might've brought the kid along with that plan in mind all along. Anyway, that's what I think, and I've got another reason besides. I'll take Martinez along to use as an interpreter."

"Why not? I'll wait here. I asked Kossowski from Narcotics to get a warrant so we can search her Caddy. She went shopping, she said, but I didn't see any packages in the car. If there's nothing in the trunk, your theory might be better than I think it is right now. Anyway," Hoke finished, "after we search the car, I'll call you at American."

"I'm going to lean on her." Henderson got to his feet. "Maybe their passports are in the trunk, too. There's not a scrap of ID in the house."

"The killers probably took the passports. But go ahead. You're bound to find out more than we know now."

Kossowski, together with an assistant state attorney, arrived a few minutes later with a search warrant for the purple Cadillac. Kossowski and Hoke searched the car. The car was leased, not owned, and was very clean. There was nothing in the trunk except for a set of tools. There was a neatly folded map of Miami in the glove compartment and a well-chewed cigar butt in the ashtray. There were no pen or pencil markings on the map.

"This kind of search doesn't mean much, Hoke," Kossowski said. "When I get it downtown and take it apart, if there's a single grain of horse I'll find it."

"Take it, then. I think Henderson's on to something."

Hoke called the American Hospital and had Henderson paged. He was in the emergency room.

"Bill," Hoke said, "the car, on a perfunctory search here, was clean. I told Kossowski to take it downtown for a vacuum job. There were no packages in the trunk. It might be a good idea for you to twist this woman's arm."

"I've been trying, but all I get is nunca, like it was the only word she knows."

"Find out what her husband and brother were doing in Miami."

"They were on vacation, she said."

"That isn't good enough."

"Martinez told me we should threaten to take her out to Krome to the alien detention camp and turn her over to the INS. She has no papers, and as an illegal alien, a few days living with those Haitian women out there might get her to talking."

"Don't just threaten her. If she won't say anything, take her out there and let the INS have her. Tell them she might harm herself, and they can slap her in solitary for a couple of days."

"As soon as we can get her out of emergency and into a private room, I'll be able to get tougher. There's no problem getting her a room--she's got nine hundred dollars in her purse. The hospital'll be glad to give her a private room until her money runs out."

"Whatever you decide, Bill, it's okay by me. Evans is taking the bodies now, and the forensic crew's almost finished. I'll wait around and seal up the townhouse, and check with the morgue later. Then I'll call you."

Two hours later, Hoke stopped at a restaurant in Kendall Lakes. He had eaten his usual diet breakfast (one poached egg, one slice of dry toast, and coffee) but nothing since. It was almost four-thirty when he looked over the menu of Roseate Spoon Bill of Fare, a popular short-order restaurant in the rambling shopping center. When it came to eating, Hoke had a major problem. He had lost weight the year before, dropping from 205 to 185 pounds, and he wanted to keep it off, but at the same time he was always hungry. He could stick to his diet for two days at most, and then he went overboard on meat and mashed potatoes. With his new teeth, he could chew almost anything.

After a prolonged study of the wide-ranging menu, he decided to compromise. He ordered a Spanish omelet with cottage cheese instead of french fries, a dish of applesauce, and told the waitress to hold the toast.

While he waited, Hoke leafed through his notebook and tried to organize his thoughts. He crossed out the name of Ronald I. France. He could do nothing to help him; the grand jury had decided to prosecute this old man for shooting and killing a twelve-year-old boy who had ripped up his flower bed. The old man was seventy-two years old, and he had cried when Hoke had taken him in for booking. According to the neighbors, he had been a nice old man, but killing a kid for ripping up a flower bed had been too drastic. It didn't help that Mr. France had claimed he only wanted to wound the kid a little with his twelve-gauge shotgun. If that had been the case, why had he loaded the gun with double-aught shells? But Hoke didn't cross out the _address_ of Mr. France. Sides had been taken in the neighborhood, and Mrs. France, also seventy-two, was going to get some harassment.

Marshall Fisher--a DOA--suicide. That was cut-and-dried, but there was going to be an inquest, and he'd have to appear. He made a check mark to watch his in box for a notice on Fisher.

There were three convenience-store killings under investigation, but no leads. Signs were posted in English and Spanish in all the convenience stares, stating that the managers were only allowed to have $35 in the cash register. But the Cuban managers were killed by Cuban gunmen for the $35. American prisons didn't frighten Marielito criminals; after Castro's, American prisons were country clubs. And when a witness to a killing was found, which was seldom, he was too scared to point out the killer.

When Hoke ran across the address, "K.P.T.--157 Ave.-- 6--418E," he was puzzled for a few moments. Not only was he hungry but he had a lot on his mind. There was no name, and he didn't know anyone who lived out this far in Kendall. Then he recalled that this was Susan Waggoner's address. Inasmuch as 157th Avenue was Dade County, and not Miami Police Department territory, Hoke rarely got this far west. All of West Kendall came under Metro Police jurisdiction.

Hoke was curious about this peculiar couple, and especially the jock, although he didn't believe for a second that Susan had ordered "Junior Mendez" to break her brother's finger. She had seemed too dimwitted even to entertain the idea, but still, it wouldn't hurt anything to talk to her while he was out this way. He might pick up some information on the boyfriend. If they were college students studying for degrees in management, maybe he and Henderson should enroll in a seminary and work on doctor of divinity degrees.

The tall unfinished buildings in Kendall Pines Terrace reminded Hoke of the Roman apartment houses he had seen in Italian neorealist movies. The Salvadoran guard on the gate explained how to get to Building Six, and Hoke took the winding road to the last parking lot, avoiding the speed bumps by going around them on the grass. He parked in a visitors' slot to avoid being towed away--as advised by the gatekeeper--and rode the elevator to the fourth floor.

Susan opened the door on the first knock, having a little difficulty with the new deadbolt lock, which was still stiff.

"I don't have much to tell you, Miss Waggoner," Hoke said. "But I was out this way, so I thought I'd drop by for a few minutes and talk to you."

Susan was wearing a black dress with hose and black pumps. She had also applied some rouge to her cheeks and wore pink lipstick. There was a string of imitation pearls around her thin neck. The dress was too big for her, and she reminded Hoke of a little girl playing dress-up in her mother's clothes.

"Would you like a beer, sergeant? Coffee?"

"No, no. Thanks, but I just had lunch."

"Lunch? It's almost five-thirty."

"An early dinner, then. I missed lunch, actually, so I had something just now at the Roseate Spoon Bill."

"I go there a lot. I like the Mexican pizza."

"I've never tried that."

"It's really good. Lots of cheese."

"I'll try it some time. Your father came in this morning, Miss Waggoner, and he claimed the two hundred dollars."

"He would."

"But we're going to hold on to the effects for a while. I was going to call the Krishnas today, but I've been busy with other things. Has your father contacted you today?"

Susan shook her head. "He won't, either. But I don't plan on going to the funeral, anyway."

"He said he was going to cremate your brother and scatter the ashes on Lake Okeechobee."