The Way We Die Now (24 page)

"I won't say anything."

"All right then. We know who killed Dr. Russell, and we've known for some time now. An arrest is imminent. I can't tell you who did it, of course, but you'll be surprised when you learn who killed him."

"Who did it?"

"I can't tell you any more than I have, and I shouldn't have told you that much. But keep what I told you to yourself. Don't tell anyone."

"I will. My husband's been dead for six years."

"In that case, you have no one else to tell. And thanks again for your help."

"This is very good news, Sergeant Moseley." Mrs. Burger butted her cigarette in the ashtray. She took a mint out of her purse and offered one to Hoke. He shook his head, got out of the car, and then circled the car to open the passenger door. He winked, placed a forefinger to his lips, and she smiled and waggled her fingers as she started back to the clinic.

As Hoke backed out of the parking lot, he wondered how long Mrs. Burger would be able to keep the "secret." One hour? Two? On the other hand, maybe she would keep it. Most nurses were privy to confidential information, and if they didn't tell their friends about their prominent patients who had doses of clap, maybe they wouldn't talk about murders either. But Hoke had dated nurses, and they had often talked about their patients to him. What else did nurses have to talk about?

Hoke drove to Dr. Schwartz's house on Poinciana and parked in the driveway. It was a large two-story house, and the brick façade had been painted white. Four Corinthian columns on the concrete front porch supported nothing. They were there just for decorative purposes. Mrs. Schwartz opened the door to his ring, and Hoke showed her his badge.

"Mrs. Schwartz? I'm Sergeant Moseley. Homicide."

Mrs. Schwartz, a matronly woman in her late forties, was wearing dark-green poplin Bermudas and a lettuce-green silk boat-necked top. Her pinkish hair, in a modified Afro, was obviously dyed. Her brown eyes were almost as dark as Hoke's, and her arched eyebrows were blackened half circles. Her upper lip was thin, but she had made it fuller by adding a rim of lipstick above the lip.

"Would you like to come in?"

"If I may," Hoke said, following her into the living room. "I won't be long." She sat on one end of the leather couch and indicated the other end for Hoke. He shook his head and remained standing.

"I've got some good news for you, Mrs. Schwartz. It'll only be a few more days, but we know who killed your husband--Dr. Russell. I wanted to prepare you for this because as soon as we announce the arrest, you'll have reporters coming around to see you, asking questions."

"I don't understand." She seemed genuinely puzzled. "What's this all about? Another detective was here this morning, and he talked to my maid. Right after he left, she told me she had to visit her aunt in Mexico City. I thought he was here to talk to her about her aunt--"

"Has she left yet?"

"About an hour ago."

"It doesn't matter. That must've been Detective Gonzalez. He's also working on this case, and he wanted to see her to clarify a few things. How long was your maid with you, Mrs. Schwartz?"

"It's been almost five years now. She doesn't live in, but we treat her very well, and I thought I knew her--but I didn't even know she had an aunt in Mexico City. She was more like family than a maid, if you know what I mean."

Hoke shrugged. "It's a cultural thing, Mrs. Schwartz. I work with Latins in the department, but we rarely socialize after hours because we don't think alike. There's one more thing I'd like to ask you about, though. When your husband was shot, you were up in Orlando visiting your sister--"

"My half sister, Becky Freeman. My maiden name was Goldberg, but when my father died, my mother married a man named David Freeman. So Becky's my half sister."

"Does she ever come down here to visit you?"

Mrs. Schwartz shook her head. "We're not very close. I invited her to the wedding when Leo and I got married, but she couldn't come, she said."

"According to my notes in the file, you visited your sister--half sister--for the first time when Dr. Russell was killed. If you weren't close, as you say, what was the purpose of the visit?"

"I wasn't asked that by the first detective."

"I know. That's why I'm asking you now."

Mrs. Schwartz tried to smile, but the corners of her lips turned down. "Do you have to know?"

"Yes, I do. The man who shot your husband had to know you'd be out of town, you see."

"All right. I can tell you, and you can check it out easily enough. Becky was mixed up with a married man and got pregnant. She got an abortion, and she asked me to come and stay with her for a few days. Our parents are dead, and I'm the only family she has left. So I went up there. You can check the records at the Fernandez Planned Parenthood Clinic in Orlando if you like. But that's behind her now, and I'd rather let it be. I don't see how it can have any bearing on this case. I don't know why Paul was shot. Who did it, Sergeant?"

"I'll have to withhold that information for a few days, but you'll know soon enough, I promise. And I don't think there's any need to bother your half sister. If I do make inquiries, I'll be discreet. In a right-wing city like Orlando a schoolteacher could lose her job if the school board found out she had an abortion."

"They don't know. The only ones who know are you, Becky and me, and the staff of the clinic."

Hoke nodded. "Don't worry." Hoke grinned. "But I did think I should prepare you for the announcement of the arrest. I know how women are. When TV cameras are involved, women want to look their best, and you might want to make a beauty shop appointment, buy some new clothes, or something. Not that you don't look lovely now, of course."

"I see. Well, thank you. Could I get you something? A drink? Coffee?"

"No, thanks. I'm just glad I could finally bring you some good news. No need to get up. I can find my way out."

Mrs. Schwartz got up anyway and trailed Hoke to the door.

"It is good news," she said, taking his hand after he had opened the door. "But I don't know what else to say. It's been so long now I thought the police had given up and closed the case."

Hoke shook his head. "A murder case is never closed until the killer is tried and put away. For the time being, Mrs. Schwartz, at least for a few days, please keep this information to yourself. Don't even tell your husband."

"I will. How long will it be? Before you make your arrest, I mean."

"Not long. Just a few more days, and that's a promise, Mrs. Schwartz."

Hoke got into his car, and the woman lingered in the doorway, watching him as he drove away.

Hoke was well pleased by the interrogation. It had gone more smoothly than he had thought it would. Before returning to the station, Hoke stopped at Larry's Hideaway for a shot of Early Times and a beer. Sergeant Armando Quevedo was sitting at the bar, and staring glumly into a seventeen-ounce strawberry margarita. A large strawberry floated on top of the drink. Hoke sat on the stool next to him and ordered a shot of Early Times and a Michelob draft.

"When did you start drinking that shit, Armando?" Hoke said.

Quevedo turned and grimaced. "It's pretty awful, but the doe said I'd have to give up boilermakers. So I figured if I stuck to this belly wash, I wouldn't overdo it. It's sweeter than hell. Are you off today?"

"No, I'm working. I just stopped for a quickie. Have you come up with any ideas for our Homicide Crack Committee Report?"

"Yeah, one." Quevedo laughed. "It came to me the other night. What we should do, you see, is take all of the confiscated crack, all we've got, and all the DEA's got in storage, and then stage a big smoke-in in the Orange Bowl. We invite all the crack abusers and tell 'em they can smoke all they want free. Inasmuch as they'll smoke it until they die, we should be able to kill them all off, or at least the two or three hundred who show up. We can have TV cameras there, Channels Four, Seven, and Ten, and they can shoot the whole scene live. Maybe we can get Geraldo Rivera to emcee the event, and it'll show what crack does to the abusers. We can have black body bags stacked up, too, you see, and the medical examiner. As the ME pronounces each person dead, we can put the body in the bag, and then stack the bags on trucks. What do you think?"

"Sounds like a good idea to me, Armando. You type up the report tonight, and I'll sign it."

"You talk as if you mean it, Hoke. I was only kidding."

"Why not? At least it's an idea. I haven't been able to think of anything, and it'll give Brownley something on paper to turn over to the new chief."

"If you really mean it, I'll type it up tonight when I go on shift. But you'll have to sign it. I sure as hell won't."

"I'll sign it. Hell, I'd like to watch something like that on TV myself. Bartender!" Hoke beckoned to the man behind the bar. "Give this gentleman a shot of Early Times and a beer, and dump this pink stuff in the sink."

Quevedo sighed. "I guess one shot won't hurt me." He pushed the strawberry margarita to one side.

"The key to drinking is moderation," Hoke said. He finished his beer, paid for the drinks, and drove toward the station. A block before he reached the station, Hoke stopped at the curb, emptied the car ashtray into the street, and then drove to the lot to turn in his unmarked car. Mrs. Burger's black More cigarette butts, if found in the ashtray, would have netted him another twenty-five-dollar fine.

CHAPTER 15

While Hoke was watching -Saturday Night Live- on the tube, the phone rang. Hoke cursed and turned the sound down before answering the phone in the kitchen.

"I'm sorry to disturb you this time of night at home, Sergeant Moseley, but I couldn't get ahold of Lieutenant Vitale. I'm Officer Clyde Brown, and my badge number, in case--"

"Never mind, Brown. You didn't wake me. What's up?"

"I'm on a one-man patrol, alone in the car, you see--out here at the airport. There's a redcap watching my car at departures, and I'm phoning here at Eastern from a pay phone. My instructions were to stop at Forty-one thirty-five Poinciana two or three times on my patrol and put the spot on the house number for a minute or so. I asked Vitale why, and he said the instructions came from you, and that was all I needed to know. I was only there, he said, to look for signs of departure."

"Did you see any?"

"That's why I'm calling, Sergeant. On my second pass the house was dark. I didn't see anything unusual, but I noticed the white Mercedes in the driveway. I turned off the spot, and drove down to the next corner, and parked. I wanted a smoke, and you have to get out of the car to smoke. There's this new rule, you know about--"

"I know about the rule."

"Okay. Anyway, I lit a cigarette. My car lights were out, and then I saw this white Mercedes drive by and recognized the number. I got back in the car and tailed it out here to the airport. He parked in the Eastern garage, up on the third floor. The man had a suitcase, and when he headed for the elevator, I drove around here to the Eastern loading zone and parked. I told the redcap to watch my car and waited inside the terminal. The man bought a ticket at the Eastern counter and then left for the concourse. After he left, I asked the ticket seller about the ticket, and she said the man's name was L. Black, and he bought a one-way ticket to Seattle. Flight Eight Thirty-two. The plane doesn't leave till twelve forty-five, and I can still pick him up. But I don't have any orders for that or any probable cause. So when I couldn't get ahold of Lieutenant Vitale, I thought I'd better call you. Captain Slater in Homicide gave me your home number."

"How come you're in a one-man car, Brown?"

"It's part of the new austerity program, I guess. In quiet districts like mine a one-man car is all you need anyway. I can always call for backup. But I'm way the hell out of my district now, and I'm gonna have to get back. Unless you tell me to pick this guy up."

"No, let him go. You did the right thing by calling me. When you write your report, send a copy to me, and I'll write a commendation for your file. The man's a murder suspect, but I don't have enough evidence to get a warrant. The best thing I could hope for was to have him run. You'd better get back to your car before someone steals it--unless you tipped the redcap in advance. And thanks again for calling me. If you get any flak for leaving your district, I'll cover for you with Lieutentant Vitale."

Hoke turned off the TV set altogether, sat back in his recliner, and savored the report. There was no doubt in his mind now that Dr. Schwartz was the killer. If the frightened bastard had used his own name to fly out to Seattle, the doctor could have said later on that he was on a vacation or visiting a friend. But "L. Black," an unimaginative pseudonym for Leo Schwartz, was a dead giveaway.

Before dressing again, Hoke called Gonzalez at home, and told him to meet him at Dr. Schwartz's house.

"Tonight?"

"That's what I said. If you get there before me, don't knock on the door. Just wait for me. We'll talk to Mrs. Schwartz together. Bring your notebook, and take down everything that's said."

"It'll take me about fifteen minutes or so to get there."

"I may be a little longer, but wait for me out front."

Gonzalez's shiny black Mercury Lynx was parked in front of the house at the curb when Hoke arrived. Hoke pulled into the empty driveway, and Gonzalez joined him on the lawn. He was wearing a white shawl-collared tuxedo jacket, with a red-and-blue bow tie and cummerbund, black tuxedo trousers, and black patent leather shoes.

"Why the semiformal?"

"I had a date," Gonzalez said. "I'd just got home when you called. If things had worked out the way I planned, I wouldn't've been home to answer the damned phone."

"You have your notebook?"

"Right here. I've also got a minirecorder in my jacket pocket, but I haven't turned it on yet."

"That's even better. Turn it on now. You're beginning to show initiative after all."

"It's mine, not the department's."

"That doesn't matter, if it works."

The porch light was on, and there was a light in the back of the house. Hoke pressed the bell ring, holding his finger on the button, and listened as chimes clanged softly behind the heavy metal door. Lights came on in the living room, and a square of light appeared on the lawn as the window whitened behind lace curtains. Louise Schwartz opened the door. Her eyelids were red and sore-looking, as if she had been crying. She wore a rose-colored negligee over her white satin nightgown, and her slippers were pink rabbits, upsidedown rabbits, including furry heads, bright button eyes, and floppy ears. Hoke had seen slippers like these on sale in department stores but thought that only teenage girls bought them. The long rabbit ears flipped up and down as she invited them in and retreated to the living room.