Miami Noir (19 page)
“You sure?” she said. She didn’t sound too disappointed.
“Hurry up.”
She blew me a kiss, opened a suitcase, threw out my new clothes, and dropped in the books of coins. I stayed on top of Melodie, my head sagging onto her neck. I smelled her hair, clean and flowery. I tried to sooth her by stroking it. Bones gave paw onto my cheek, but seeing no treats, climbed up and sat on my back. I laid still while the squeaky wheels of the suitcases rolled past my nose.
“We could’ve been great together,” she said, “if one of us was a different person.”
I looked up and thought I saw a glint of tears in her eye, as she shut the door. Boozanne was gone, taking our dreams with her.
It all hit me then—Melodie would have no idea I saved her life, and she was never gonna think of me like a brother. She’d have a fit when she found out I’d been living there, intimate-like, with her and Bob, even if I did keep the house nice and feed Bones. Some of her ribs were likely broken too. I’d never be able to explain. I was headed back to the slammer for a long, long time.
I thought about Boozanne. I didn’t even know her real name and hadn’t never seen those airplane tickets to ponder where she was headed. It could’ve been so perfect, if she hadn’t got greedy. Our plan was to walk down to the bar, have a beer, call a taxi to the airport…She wouldn’t do that now.
Bob’s car pulled in, and I was still laying there, half on Melodie. My arm went limp, and Bones jumped off my back as I sat up. Melly rolled to her side wailing, her eyes glazed, flat as those silver dollars. I said, “Sorry, so sorry, Mel,” but she didn’t hear.
I leaned back against the wall and pictured Boozanne, down the block—big and bold as she was, in that purple shirt, sticking out her thumb—and a gold Cadillac stopping, its doors opening like wings, to fly her away.
L
isten, you either find a home for your mutt by tomorrow, or I’ll take it to the vet to put it to sleep.” Rob was speaking so loudly that I had to hold the cell phone a foot away from my ear. “I mean it, Lily, no more excuses—either you find it a home, or I swear I’ll do it for you.”
I knew Rob was not yet finished threatening me. Sure enough, less than ten seconds later, he added, “Lily, you have until 5 o’clock tomorrow afternoon—I already called the vet, and they’re open until 6.” In spite of the loud noises from the traffic, I could hear his breathing.
“Rob, I know you’re fed up with Royal. You’ve been so understanding, really—and I appreciate all you’ve put up with.” Although my heart was beating so fast that I thought it would burst through the cotton shirt I was wearing, I could not let Rob know how upset I was. I knew it was best to approach my husband from a position of strength. “I’m sorry, honey, but I can’t talk now—I’m late for an interview—can we please discuss it later, when I get home?”
“There’s nothing to discuss—you have twenty-four hours, period.” I flinched at the harsh sound the receiver made as Rob slammed the phone down. Although it was another unbearably hot steamy August day in Miami, I was ice cold.
I could feel my eyes begin to fill up with tears as I thought about what Rob had just said. I did not doubt for one second that he was capable of carrying out his threat. It was true that Royal, at his advanced age, would have accidents inside the house. Because he had problems with his digestion, he would pass gas often. In addition, it was easy for him to become disoriented: He would bark at odd hours and, every so often, wander outside and get lost. I had spent quite a few hours searching the neighborhood for him. In spite of those problems, though, Royal was in good health and, according to Dr. Roth, could last a few more years.
I had found Royal twelve years ago, late on a cold and wet night during the summer vacation after my freshman year in college. I had been gassing up my car when I heard a noise coming from the bushes next to the ladies’ room door and had gone to investigate. I found a tiny puppy, a bundle of shivering flesh no bigger than my hand, cowering in the corner. I picked him up, without any hesitation, and took him home. I bottle fed him every few hours for the next month, until he was healthy enough to eat on his own. Even Dr. Roth had not been able to tell what breed of dog Royal was—all he could say was that his mother had had a “hell of a Saturday night.”
Royal, who weighed over 140 pounds now, had wiry golden hair and enormous black eyes with lashes that curled up. One of his ears lay down and the other stood straight up. We had not spent a night apart since the day I had found him. I loved Royal with all my heart and could not imagine life without him.
Although it was clear that my relationship with Rob had been rocky for the past year, it was difficult for me to imagine how it had deteriorated to the point that Rob would actually threaten to put Royal down. As I sat there in my car, at the intersection of N.W. Twelfth Avenue and 12th Street, waiting for the traffic light to change, all I could do was ask myself: What happened to us? How could the relationship between two people who had been so in love, and so happy together, disintegrate in such a terrible way?
Rob and I had been married for five years. When we met, he had been a successful architect with a thriving practice, and I had been working as the in-house private investigator for one of Miami’s best known criminal defense attorneys.
I came from a family of lawyers, so, naturally, it was assumed that I would follow in my relatives’ footsteps and become an attorney, as they had. My parents, my brother, and a cousin, who all practiced criminal defense law, had offices located in a one-story, ramshackle building in Coconut Grove that they had purchased years before.
Due to the kind of law they practiced, they needed the services of a private investigator on a daily basis, so they always employed one in-house. During summer vacations, I would work in their offices, doing various clerical jobs. One summer, however, they had so many cases pending that I had to assist their in-house private investigator. After the first week of shadowing her as she went about, I knew I wanted to do.
I loved everything about the job—from interviewing witnesses to conducting surveillances. As soon as I graduated from college—I studied business at the University of Miami—I set my sights on my goal. For two years I interned at the office of one of the most successful criminal defense attorneys in Miami. Once I had fulfilled the state of Florida’s requirements to be issued a license, I began working.
Although I could have worked for my relatives, I did not think that was a good idea. I was fortunate in that the attorney at whose offices I had interned offered me a full-time job working for him, which I quickly accepted.
I met Rob while working a case that involved his architectural firm. When, a few days later, I bumped into him while shopping at my neighborhood deli, we struck up a conversation. It turned out we lived in the same neighborhood, had both studied at the University of Miami, and we went to the same church. As we were both unattached at the time, it seemed almost natural that we would begin dating. A year later we were engaged, and six months after that we were married.
The first four years of our marriage had been blissful—we lived in a town house in the Coconut Grove section of Miami that we had bought in a deplorable state but that with Rob’s know how and many contacts, had renovated to the point where it tripled in price.
Life had been good, so much so that we had even talked about starting a family. Then, suddenly and without notice, the architectural firm where Rob worked was forced to close, and he lost his job. It really wasn’t his fault: One of the senior partners had had a stroke and, as a result, had been unable to work, and the other partner then left his wife to marry his longtime mistress, something which was going to cost him plenty. Under such circumstances, the partners had decided to shut the office down, leaving twelve architects jobless.
Unfortunately, Rob had not been able to find another job—well, that was not exactly true. Other possibilities had materialized, but Rob insisted on holding out for a job with the same pay and status he had enjoyed at his old firm. Meanwhile, I became the sole supporter of the family.
Although I was making good money, it was not enough to pay our bills, so we had to take out a second mortgage, then, last month, a line of credit which enabled us to continue to live in the style we were used to. Our credit cards were maxed out and it was clear that we were in serious financial trouble. I was so worried that I actually began to listen to those credit counseling ads on television.
I had to sign all the loan documents as well—something which I strenuously objected to, but which Rob forced me to do. It was easier to give in than to fight him. Besides, at that point I was still in love with him, and believed in him and in what he told me. For a smart woman, sometimes I was pretty dumb.
Later, when the creditors were hounding us in full force, I found out that he had forged my signature on other loan applications. In spite of the fact that we were one step away from the poorhouse, Rob refused to cut down on our spending, proclaiming that we had to maintain our standard of living at all cost.
However, for the past few months, instead of going out and trying to find another job, Rob had been going to the gym, where he was now spending six to eight hours a day. As long as I had known him, he had never before shown any interest in working out, so I was a bit surprised that he threw himself into it so wholeheartedly.
At first I thought that he had begun seeing another woman, and was getting his body into shape for her, but after following him around for a few hours for a couple of days, I knew that I was mistaken. He actually did go to the gym to work out. In almost no time, he lost all kinds of weight, and his body became hard as a rock. Every night when I came home from work, he would show me his “six-pack” and tell me how low his body fat was. He had transformed himself from sedentary architect to full-fledged bodybuilder.
Exercising was normally considered beneficial for a person, but in Rob’s case it was completely different. He became mean and abusive, and would wait for me to come home from work to berate me. Our relationship collapsed to the point that, had I been able to do so, I would have left him. Unfortunately, our financial situation was so dire that I would have been saddled with much of his debt; I would be paying it off for the rest of my life. And it wasn’t just for financial reasons that I stayed with him. As a practicing Catholic, I took my marriage vows seriously and had married Rob for life. Evidently, we were now in the poorer part of the “for richer and for poorer” stage.
Now, with Rob’s threats to euthanize Royal, the situation had reached the point of no return. I had to find a way of keeping my dog, no matter what it took. At that point in our relationship, if I’d had to choose between my husband and my dog, the dog would win, hands down.
Unfortunately, I could not formulate a plan for how to deal with Rob and the Royal situation just then, as I was on my way to the Dade County Jail to interview a client represented by the criminal defense attorney for whom I worked. According to the preliminary notes that Adrian, my boss, had given me earlier that day, the client was charged with first degree murder.
It seems that Mr. Campos, our client, had plotted and planned to kill his next door neighbor, a young man he had come to loathe in such a way that living next to him had become unbearable. I had no idea what the circumstances surrounding the murder were, as Adrian had not given any details in his notes. We had been working together for so many years that he trusted me to get all the relevant information.
Once I arrived at the jail, I walked over to the far corner of the waiting room and handed my driver’s license to a corrections officer seated behind the bullet proof glass, along with my private investigator’s license and a letter from Adrian stating he was the attorney representing Mr. Lionel Campos.
Back at my office, I had skimmed the “A form”—the arrest affidavit—and learned that Mr. Campos had been born in Cuba, was sixty years of age, married, and lived in Hialeah, just like thousands of other Cubans who had come to Miami fleeing Fidel Castro. As I waited in the interview room, I decided to spend the time reading the rest of the A form. According to the report, Mr. Campos had killed his neighbor, a Mr. Kent Murphy, twenty-eight years old, Caucasian (or, as they were referred to in Miami demographics, a non-Hispanic white), single.
I was on my third reading of the A form when Mr. Campos walked in. I don’t know what I had expected, but it sure as hell was not the slight, sallow-looking, white-haired individual with the twinkling blue eyes that came into the interview room.
I stood up and extended my right hand. “Mr. Campos? I’m Lily Ramos, the investigator from your attorney Mr. Langer’s office.”
Mr. Campos shook my hand, even as he checked me over with a skeptical look on his face. I was not surprised at his reaction, as I knew I did not fit most individuals’ preconceived idea of what a private investigator should look like. I was small—five feet tall if the wind was blowing right—and, although curvy, I only tipped the scales at one hundred pounds. I was olive-skinned, with straight, shoulder-length, light-brown hair and caramel-colored eyes. Although I carried a big, heavy gun—a Colt .45 (I had bad vision, so I wanted to make sure that if I had to shoot someone, I would not miss my mark)—I was not exactly intimidating.
“You have some kind of ID?” Mr. Campos was not the first client who doubted me, so I had come prepared. I took out one of my business cards from inside my notepad and handed it over to him. I waited while Mr. Campos carefully examined it, turning the small white card over as if there might be a secret message somewhere on it. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine,” I answered. Then, thinking I was sounding just a bit too curt, I added, “I just had a birthday.”
“You look very young—maybe twenty,” Mr. Campos commented. It was not meant as a compliment and I did not take it as such. “Okay, we can start. What do you want to know?”
“Well, could you please tell me a bit about yourself, and then we’ll talk about what happened—ending up with how and why you’re here,” I said. “Whatever you tell me will be kept in the strictest of confidence.”
Mr. Campos, who had come over with his wife from Cuba thirty years before, had lived in the same house in Hialeah since then. He had worked as an automobile mechanic—he specialized in repairing air conditioners—at the same store since his arrival in Miami. His wife worked in a factory, as a seamstress. Although they had been very happy together, the couple had no children—“a great sadness,” as he said.
Mr. Campos told me that he had retired from his job five years before, not by choice, but on his doctor’s orders, due to a heart condition which was being aggravated by his work as an air conditioner repairman. His wife, who was ten years younger than him, continued to work. According to Mr. Campos, he did not like just hanging out with other old guys—all they did was drink cheap beer, play dominos, and tell lies about life back in Cuba—so he dedicated himself to improving their home, thinking that if he were to fix up the place nicely, he and his wife could sell it, and with the profits they were sure to make, move into an assisted-living community. He spent hours landscaping the garden, and took great pride in the results.
Mr. Campos also began to take an interest in cooking, and said he very much enjoyed surprising his wife with the meals he had prepared for her when she came home from work. He would try out new recipes, tweaking the ingredients here and there until he was satisfied. He even invented several recipes for marinating especially tough cuts of meat before barbequing them, some of which were so successful that his wife asked for a list of the ingredients. Life was good, and it seemed that it would only get better.