Skin Tight (26 page)

Mick Stranahan was sitting in coach, a stack of outdoors magazines on the seat next to him. He saw Christina coming down the aisle and smiled. “My shadow.”

“I'm not following you,” she said.

“Yes, you are. But that's all right.” He moved the magazines and motioned her to sit down.

“You look very nice.” It was the first time he had seen her in a dress. “Some coincidence, that you and the anchorman got the same flight as I did.”

Christina said, “He's not an anchorman. And no, it's not a coincidence that we're on the same plane. Ray thinks it is, but it's not.”

“Ray thinks it is, huh? So this was your idea, following me.”

“Relax,” Christina said. Ever since the shooting she had stayed close; at first she rationalized it as a journalist's instinct—the Barletta story kept coming back to Stranahan, didn't it? But then she had found herself sleeping some nights at the hospital, where nothing newsworthy was likely to happen; sitting in the corner and watching him in the hospital bed, long after it was obvious he would make a full recovery. Christina couldn't deny she was attracted to him, and worried about him. She also had a feeling he was moderately crazy.

Stranahan said, “So you guys are going to trail me all around New York. A regular tag team, you and Ray.”

“Ray will be busy,” Christina said, “on other projects.”

The jetliner dipped slightly, and a shaft of sunlight caught the side of her face, forcing her to look away. For the first time Stranahan noticed a sprinkling of light freckles on her nose and cheeks: cinnamon freckles, the kind that children have.

“Did I ever thank you for saving my life?” he asked.

“Yes, you did.”

“Well, thanks again.” He poured some honey-roasted peanuts into the palm of her hand. “Why are you following me?”

“I'm not,” she said.

“If it's only to juice up your damn TV show, then I'm going to get angry.”

Christina said, “It's not that.”

“You want to keep an eye on me.”

“You're an interesting man. You make things happen.”

Stranahan popped a peanut and said. “That's a good one.”

Christina Marks softened her tone. “I'll help you find her.”

“Find who?”

“Maggie Gonzalez.”

“Who said she was lost? Besides, you got her on tape, right? The whole sordid story.”

“Not yet,” Christina admitted.

Stranahan laughed caustically. “Oh brother,” he said.

“Listen, I got a trail of bills she's been sending up to the office. Between the two of us, we could find her in a day. Besides, I think she'll talk to me. The whole sordid story, on tape—like you said.”

Stranahan didn't mention that he already knew where Maggie Gonzalez was staying, and that he was totally confident that he could persuade her to talk.

“You're the most helpful woman I ever met,” he said to Christina Marks. “So unselfish, too. If I didn't know better, I'd think maybe you were hunting for Maggie because she beat you and the anchorman out of some serious dough.”

Christina said, “I liked you better unconscious.”

Stranahan chuckled and took her hand. He didn't let go like she thought he would, he just held it. Once, when the plane hit some turbulence, Christina jumped nervously. Without looking up from his
Field & Stream,
Stranahan gave her hand a squeeze. It was more comforting than suggestive, but it made Christina flush.

She retreated to the role of professional interviewer. “So,” she said, “tell me about yourself.”

“You first,” Stranahan said; a brief smile, then back to the magazine.

Oddly, she found herself talking—talking so openly that she sounded like one of those video-dating tapes: “Let's see. I'm thirty-four years old, divorced, born in Richmond, went to the University of Missouri journalism school, lettered on the swim team, graduated magna, got my first decent news job with the ABC affiliate in St. Louis, then three years at WBBM in Chicago until I met Ray at the Gacy trial and he offered me an assistant producer's job, and here I am. Now it's your turn, Mick.”

“Pardon?”

“Your turn,” Christina Marks said. “That's my life story, now let's hear yours.”

Stranahan closed the magazine and centered it on his lap. He said, “My life story is this: I've killed five men, and I've been married five times.”

Christina slowly pulled her hand away.

“Which scares you more?” Mick Stranahan said.

 

 

WHEN
Dade County Commissioner Roberto Pepsical broke the news to The Others (that is, the other crooked commissioners), they all had the same reaction: Nope, sorry, too late.

Dr. Rudy Graveline had offered major bucks to rezone prime green space for the Old Cypress Towers project, and the commissioners had gone ahead and done it. They couldn't very well put it back on the agenda and reverse the vote—not without arousing the interest of those goddamned newspaper reporters. Besides, a deal was a deal. Furthermore, The Others wanted to know about the promised twenty-five-thousand-dollar bribe: specifically, where was it? Was Rudy holding out? One commissioner even suggested that a new vote to rescind the zoning and scrap the project could be obtained only by doubling the original payoff.

Roberto Pepsical was fairly sure that Dr. Rudy Graveline would not pay twice for essentially the same act of corruption. In addition, Roberto didn't feel like explaining to the doctor that if Old Cypress Towers were to expire on the drawing board, so would a plethora of other hidden gratuities that would have winged their way into the commissioners' secret accounts. From downtown bankers to the zoning lawyers to the code inspectors, payoffs traditionally trickled upward to the commissioners. The ripple effect of killing a project as large as Rudy's was calamitous, bribery-wise.

Roberto hated being the middleman when the stakes got this high. By nature he was slow, inattentive, and somewhat easily confused. He hadn't taken notes during Rudy's late-night phone call, and maybe he should have. This much he remembered clearly: The doctor had said that he'd changed his mind about Old Cypress Towers, that he'd decided to move his money out of the country instead. When Roberto protested, the doctor told him there'd been all kinds of trouble, serious trouble—specifically, that hinky old surgical case he'd mentioned that day at lunch. The proverbial doo-doo was getting ready to hit the proverbial fan, Rudy had said; somebody was out to ruin him. He told Roberto Pepsical to pass along his most profound apologies to The Others, but there was no other course for the doctor to take. Since his problem wasn't going away, Old Cypress Towers would.

The solution was so obvious that even Roberto grasped it immediately. The apartment project could be rescued, and so could the commissioners' bribes. Once Roberto learned that Dr. Rudy Graveline's problem had a name, he began checking with his connections at the Metro-Dade Police Department.

Which led him straight to detectives John Murdock and Joe Salazar.

Roberto considered the mission of such significance that he took the radical step of skipping his normal two-hour lunch to stop by the police station for a personal visit. He found both detectives at their desks. They were eating hot Cuban sandwiches and cleaning their revolvers. It was the first time Roberto had ever seen Gulden's mustard on a .357.

“You're sure,” said the commissioner, “that this man is a murder suspect?”

“Yep,” said John Murdock.

“Number one suspect,” added Joe Salazar.

Roberto said, “So you're going to arrest him?”

“Of course,” Salazar said.

“Eventually,” said Murdock.

“The sooner the better,” Roberto said.

John Murdock glanced at Joe Salazar. Then he looked at Roberto and said, “Commissioner, if you've got any information about this man . . .”

“He's been giving a friend of mine a hard time, that's all. A good friend of mine.” Roberto knew better than to mention Rudy Graveline's name, and John Murdock knew better than to ask.

Joe Salazar said, “It's a crime to threaten a person. Did Stranahan make a threat?”

“Nothing you could prove,” Roberto said. “Look, I'd appreciate it if you guys would keep me posted.”

“Absolutely,” John Murdock promised. He wiped the food off his gun and shoved it back in the shoulder holster.

“This is very important,” Roberto Pepsical said. “Extremely important.”

Murdock said, “Don't worry, we'll nail the fuckwad.”

“Yeah,” said Joe Salazar. “It's only a matter of time.”

“Not much time, I hope.”

“We'll do what we can, Commissioner.”

“There might even be a promotion in it.”

“Oh boy, a promotion,” said John Murdock. “Joey, you hear that? A promotion!” The detective burped at the commissioner and said, “How about some green instead?”

Roberto Pepsical winced as if a hornet had buzzed into his ear. “Jesus, are you saying—”

“Money,” said Joe Salazar, chomping a pickle. “He means money.”

“Let me get this straight: You guys want a bribe for solving a murder?”

“No,” Murdock said, “just for making the arrest.”

“I can't believe this.”

“Sure you can,” Joe Salazar said. “Your friend wants Stranahan out of the way, right? The county jail, that's fucking out of the way.”

Roberto buried his rubbery chin in his hands. “Money,” he murmured.

“I don't know what you guys call it over at Government Center, but around here we call it a bonus.” John Murdock grinned at the county commissioner. “What
do
you guys call it?”

To Roberto it seemed reckless to be discussing a payoff in the middle of the detective squad room. He felt like passing gas.

In a low voice he said to John Murdock, “All right, we'll work something out.”

“Good.”

The commissioner stood up. He was about to reach out and shake their hands, but he changed his mind. “Look, we never had this meeting,” he said to the two detectives.

“Of course not,” John Murdock agreed.

Joe Salazar said, “Hey, you can trust us.”

About as far as I can spit, thought Roberto Pepsical.

 

 

THREE
days before Mick Stranahan, Christina Marks, and Reynaldo Flemm arrived in Manhattan, and four days before the man called Chemo showed up, Maggie Gonzalez walked into a video-rental shop on West 52nd Street and asked to make a tape. She gave the shop clerk seventy-five dollars cash, and he led her to “the studio,” a narrow backroom paneled with cheap brown cork. The studio reeked of Lysol. On the floor was a stained gray mattress and a bright clump of used Kleenex, which, at Maggie's insistence, the clerk removed. A Sony video camera was mounted on an aluminum tripod at one end of the room; behind it, on another stem, was a small bank of lights. The clerk opened a metal folding chair and placed it eight feet in front of the lens.

Maggie sat down, opened her purse and unfolded some notes she had written on Plaza stationery. While she read them to herself, the clerk was making impatient chewing-gum noises in his cheeks, like he had better things to do. Finally Maggie told him to start the tape, and a tiny red light twinkled over the Sony's cold black eye.

Maggie was all set to begin when she noticed the clerk hovering motionless in the darkest corner, a cockroach trying to blend into the cork. She told the guy to get lost, waited until the door slammed, then took a breath and addressed the camera.

“My name is Maggie Orestes Gonzalez,” she said. “On the twelfth of March, 1986, I was a witness to the killing of a young woman named Victoria Barletta . . .”

The taping took fourteen minutes. Afterward Maggie got two extra copies made at twenty dollars each. On the way back to the hotel she stopped at a branch of the Merchant Bank and rented a safe-deposit box, where she left the two extra videotapes. She took the original up to her room at the Plaza, and placed it in the nightstand, under the room-service menu.

The very next day Maggie Gonzalez took a cab to the office of Dr. Leonard Leaper on the corner of 50th Street and Lexington. Dr. Leaper was a nationally renowned and internationally published plastic surgeon; Maggie had read up on him in the journals. “You have a decent reputation,” she told Dr. Leaper. “I hope it's not just hype.” Her experiences in Dr. Rudy Graveline's surgical suite had taught her to be exceedingly careful when choosing a physician.

Neutrally Dr. Leaper said, “What can I do for you, young lady?”

“The works,” Maggie replied.

“The works?”

“I want a bleph, a lift, and I want the hump taken out of this nose. Also, I want you to trim the septum so it looks like this.” With a finger she repositioned the tip of her nose at a perky, Sandy Duncan-type angle. “See?”

Dr. Leaper nodded.

“I'm a nurse,” Maggie said. “I used to work for a plastic surgeon.”

“I figured something like that,” Dr. Leaper said. “Why do you want these operations?”

“None of your business.”

Dr. Leaper said, “Miss Gonzalez, if indeed you worked for a surgeon, then you understand I've got to ask some personal questions. There are good reasons for elective cosmetic surgery and bad reasons, good candidates and poor candidates. Some patients believe it will solve all their problems, and of course it won't—”

“Cut the crap,” Maggie said, “and take my word: Surgery will definitely solve my problem.”