[Deborah Jones 01.0] Miami Requiem

by J. B. Turner

  Goldberg glanced up and saw Deborah approaching. She looked stunning with her athletic figure, yet her face was drawn. She wore a deep gray Nike tracksuit, battered old sneakers and a white headband. As she got closer, he smelled her scent, which reminded him of flowers in a summer meadow. He stood up and shook her soft hand. ‘Sorry to bug you out of hours.’ It was a lame joke.

  She sat down and slung a huge sports bag onto an adjacent chair.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ Goldberg said. ‘Coffee, tea, beer?’

  ‘A freshly squeezed orange juice would be good.’ She smiled.

  Goldberg caught the eye of a waiter and ordered the juice and another espresso for himself, despite not having started the first one. He looked at Deborah. ‘How you feeling?’

  ‘Freaked out.’

  ‘That’s to be expected. Get any sleep?’

  ‘Not really. I kept thinking there were still bugs in my apartment. I looked in all the lampshades. I just gave up trying to sleep about four.’

  Goldberg groaned. ‘That’s about when I got to bed.’

  ‘Ah, hah. Anything special?’

  ‘No. Just some drinks with old buddies from the paper. You wouldn’t know them‌—‌retired a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Old-timers?’

  ‘Hey, less of that.’ Goldberg felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over him as he remembered what he had to say. ‘Look, we need to sort things out. I’ve got a responsibility for my journalists. And I’ve got a proposition for you.’

  Deborah shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Now, don’t take this the wrong way… Deborah, I’d like to take you off this project until things cool down.’ She opened her mouth to speak but Goldberg held up a hand to silence her. ‘Now, I know this isn’t what you want to hear. But I’ve been talking to our lawyers and Harry Donovan, and they think the warning from Richmond, or whatever his name is, in addition to the bugging, is a very worrying development.’

  ‘Sam, this isn’t the time to back off. We’re on to something.’ Deborah lifted up the front page of that day’s Herald so he could see her story. ‘Jimmy Brown’s risking his life to try and help William Craig. Risking his life. Are you seriously saying we should just let Craig die?’

  Goldberg took off his sunglasses and placed them on the table. ‘Listen to me‌—‌’

  But Deborah didn’t let him finish. ‘Sam, I’m on this assignment, and I want to see it through. Either that or you give it to someone else. And that person will no doubt be threatened as well. I’m prepared to put my neck on the line over this.’

  Goldberg was not in the mood for an argument. His gaze was drawn to a limbless veteran, maybe in his late fifties, begging in Lummus Park, which separated the white sand from the traffic of Ocean Drive. He’d seen the guy several times before sleeping off the effects of cheap wine under a bench.

  Poor bastard.

  ‘You’re making this very difficult for me,’ Goldberg said.

  Deborah leaned forward, inadvertently brushing his arm. He felt his stomach knot. It felt good just to be touched by her. ‘Trust me, I can do this.’

  ‘I haven’t got time for personal crusades,’ Goldberg said. ‘I’m a newspaper editor. We have to think story. Besides, we’re in very dangerous territory.’

  ‘Don’t get cold feet on me, please. Look, how about reviewing the situation if things change‌—‌what do you think? Gimme a break, Sam.’

  ‘You think Senator O’Neill is pulling the strings?’

  ‘I know it. You said it yourself. He’s the key.’

  Goldberg sipped some more water.

  ‘Let me continue working on this,’ Deborah said, ‘reporting directly to you.’

  Goldberg shrugged. ‘I must be nuts, but okay, I give in.’ He’d clear it with Donovan that afternoon. Sure, Donovan would hit the roof, but Goldberg would take the flak and leave his journalist, no longer so green, to get on with her investigation.

  Goldberg looked at Deborah’s elegant, manicured hands, and he wanted to hold them. Hold them just to say he cared for her. Nothing more, nothing less. ‘But I’ll be keeping the situation under review on a daily basis. Is that understood?’

  She leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. His heart started pumping faster.

  ‘What was that for?’

  ‘For having faith in me.’

  Maybe Harry was right. Maybe he wasn’t thinking straight. But Goldberg was too exhausted to dig his heels in. If Deborah wanted this story so badly, so be it.

  21

  After a great game with the Overtown Women’s Soccer Team, Deborah was enjoying a barbecue with Faith and the others in the shade of some huge oaks in a corner of Palmer Park.

  Deborah had scored a hat trick, which put the team in the top three of their league. Beer, wine, and cheap champagne were flowing. Salsa music blared. The smell of burnt hot dogs, hamburgers and chicken wings filled the steamy air.

  Faith sidled up to Deborah and nudged her in the side. ‘What you on, girl? Last time you played like that was when you first joined.’

  ‘Guess I owed you all a good game.’

  ‘A good game, honey? You gave us more than that. You got everyone talking about us. Now they’ll know the Overtown girls are no lazy streets sluts… We’re here because we love playing soccer.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  Deborah looked around at the rest of the girls. Some danced, beer in hand, some fooled around, some lay back on the grass and chilled out.

  The cell phone in Deborah’s bag rang. Faith shook her head. ‘Just ignore it, honey. It’s Saturday.’

  Deborah wished she could, but that wasn’t the way she worked. It was Frank from the newsroom. ‘Hi, Deborah, got something for you.’

  ‘Hi, how’s it going?’ She smiled as she watched Faith join some of the girls and dance beside the CD player.

  ‘Good. Sorry to bother you on your day off, but I’ve had a Mexican lady pestering me, wanting to speak to you.’

  ‘Can’t it wait till Monday?’

  ‘That’s what I said, but she said it was important. Mentioned today’s story. Thought you’d be interested. You want her number?’

  ‘Shoot.’ Deborah scribbled the information down on the back of a napkin. She thanked Frank and called the number he’d given her.

  She sat down cross-legged on the grass.

  A woman’s voice answered, a heavy Latino accent. ‘Carla speaking.’

  ‘Hi, Carla, it’s Deborah Jones of the Miami Herald. You called my office.’

  The woman gave a long sigh. ‘My sister call me this morning, after reading story of Senator O’Neill’s chauffeur. She has story to tell as well. I tell her to go to police, but she doesn’t listen. I say go to lady who wrote the story in newspaper, but she doesn’t listen. She is scared. She say they will kill her.’

  ‘Sorry‌—‌who will kill her?’

  ‘Friends of Senator O’Neill.’

  Deborah felt her stomach knot. ‘Can you say that again, please?’

  ‘My sister’s name is Maria Gonzalez. She works as a maid for Senator O’Neill in Naples.’

  Deborah felt her heart skip a beat. ‘Your sister works for the senator?’

  ‘For many years. She cleans and cooks.’

  ‘And you’re saying someone threatened her. When?’

  ‘First thing this morning. They visit her at her house. Two men. She’d never see them before.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she go to the police?’

  ‘Miss Jones, listen to me. My sister is a simple woman. She love her church and place her trust in God, not in the police.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘I’d like that you to speak to her. Perhaps then you will understand.’

  ‘Does she live in the senator’s home?’

  ‘No. She live in North Naples, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Hang on. You’re saying you don’t know your si
ster’s address?’

  ‘She doesn’t have much to do with us anymore. She only go out to work or go to church.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the church?’

  ‘I know that, yes. St John the Evangelist Church on 111th Avenue. She say the priest is very nice.’

  ‘Okay, that’s something.’ The music from the girls was getting louder. Deborah signaled with her free hand for Faith to turn it down.

  ‘My sister and I speak on phone only one hour ago. She is scared she will be deported if she speak about what she know.’

  ‘Deported? For what?’

  ‘The senator is sponsoring her green card. She cannot say nothing against him.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So you will speak to my sister?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Deborah. ‘If I can find her.’

  22

  Early the following morning, just after seven, Deborah sat in the shadows near the back of the St John the Evangelist Catholic Church in North Naples. The first Mass of the day.

  She’d got up just after four, headed across to Carla Gonzalez’s house in Little Havana‌—‌where she’d picked up a picture of Maria taken three years earlier at a family funeral‌—‌before making the two-hour journey to Naples. She arrived just after dawn had broken and had blanketed the pretty Gulf town in a tangerine glow.

  Deborah glanced at the small color picture. Maria Gonzalez was a chubby woman, well turned out in a very conservative trouser suit. But her eyes conveyed a strange sadness.

  Deborah looked around the congregation and felt like an impostor. It was strange to be back in the city, after her run-in with the man called John Richmond. Perhaps she should have told Sam Goldberg before she set off, but he would probably have tried to dissuade her.

  Most of the hundred early-morning churchgoers were white, although not particularly affluent-looking. Deborah counted five Hispanics, seated close together near the front. Maybe one family.

  Mass started and the thick smell of incense wafted through the church. The priest was a thin, whey-faced man who wore half-moon spectacles. He was draped in the traditional full length black cassock and the white surplice with wide sleeves worn over it. Looking around and smiling, he welcomed everybody before asking God to forgive their sins.

  In her father’s Baptist church, after a brief welcome, a hymn was the order of the day. As a little girl, Deborah had taken great pride in sitting beside her mother as her father began his sermons. What a voice he’d had‌—‌strong; passionate, and full of life. By contrast this priest sounded like a dull scientist explaining the laws of physics to kids.

  Father Tobias Bruskewitz read from the Bible, and Deborah noticed a young girl with pigtails near the front turn round as if she was bored. Deborah smiled across the pews at the girl, and she smiled back. Oh, to be young and innocent.

  Deborah bowed her head as prayers started. After each prayer, the congregation responded with ‘Lord, graciously hear.’

  After a long twenty minutes the bread and wine were offered up as the body and blood of Jesus.

  Deborah watched everyone carefully, but no one matched the description or photo of Maria Gonzalez.

  For some reason, she’d expected to see the woman as soon as she entered the church. Deborah left after the blessing and stood outside in the hope that she might’ve missed her. A few minutes later, the worshippers walked past her, blinking into the fierce morning sunshine.

  The priest shook a few hands and offered gentle pats on the back for some, whispered condolences to others.

  Deborah hung around until only she was left. Deflated, she went back to her car, parked a block away.

  What should she do now?

  The next Mass was at nine, then at eleven, then at one and, finally, at six.

  She felt silly having come all that way. She hadn’t even asked Carla what time her sister usually took Mass. ‘Deborah, you idiot,’ she said, and banged her palm on the steering wheel.

  She contemplated calling Carla but decided against it, as she didn’t want her to think that Deborah was some airhead. Damn. She knew that if Maria talked it would open up the story again. But time was running out for William Craig. He needed someone to put their neck on the line, just like Rachel Harvey and Jimmy Black had.

  But look what happened to Rachel, Deborah thought. Perhaps it would be an idea to let someone know where she was and why. Someone she trusted.

  She bit her lower lip, not sure what to do. It was too early to call Sam Goldberg, especially on a Sunday.

  What about Faith? Who better? Deborah knew her friend took a nine o’clock Sunday-morning soccer session for girls, and would probably be getting ready. She called up her number from her cell phone and it was answered on the second ring.

  In the background, children shouted and cried as a TV cartoon blared at full volume.

  ‘Morning, Faith, sorry to bother you.’

  ‘Hey, what’s happening, honey?’

  ‘A few moments of your time.’

  Faith shouted for someone to shut the door, and the noise subsided. ‘Sorry, honey, they’re all acting up.’

  ‘Faith, I’m back in Naples.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘Thought I told you to get the hell out of there.’

  ‘I know, but a lead’s come up. Look, I want you to write down the following, in case something happens to me.’

  ‘Honey, you’re scaring me again.’

  ‘Just do it, okay?’ As a rule, Deborah never snapped at Faith, but her nerves weren’t holding up too well. ‘Write down that I’m going to be attending five Masses at St John the Evangelist Catholic Church in North Naples. The last one is at six.’

  ‘You flipped your lid, honey?’

  ‘Remember that call I took yesterday afternoon? Well, that was the sister of a woman who works for Senator O’Neill.’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Anyway, just write down the name Maria Gonzalez.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  Deborah paused for a moment, slightly reluctant to tell her who it was. ‘She’s Senator O’Neill’s maid.’

  ‘I got you.’

  ‘I believe she has been threatened by friends of Senator O’Neill.’

  ‘Hold on, hold on.’

  ‘You writing?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, okay, got it. So, what do I do now?’

  ‘Keep that bit of paper close to you and don’t tell a soul.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

  ‘It’s just a precaution. If something happens to me, I want someone to know what I’ve been up to.’

  ‘Come home, honey, it’s not worth it.’

  ‘I’ve got to see this through. I’m getting closer.’

  ‘You’re getting sucked into something you don’t have the faintest idea about, honey.’

  Deborah paused for a moment. ‘Maybe I am.’

  Over the next few hours, Deborah attended the nine o’clock, eleven o’clock and one o’clock Masses. Afterwards, feeling tired and extremely bored, she was tempted to head on back to Miami, just like Faith had advised.

  More than four hours to wait until the last Mass of the day.

  She decided to buy lunch‌—‌a chicken sandwich and Diet Coke‌—‌at a nearby deli. Afterwards, she walked off her lunch down the oak-lined streets around the church. Then she returned to her car and enjoyed some shut-eye as the sun beat down.

  Just before six, Deborah was back in the church, ready to go through the same routine.

  As the Mass started, she looked around her, desperate to see Maria Gonzalez. The congregation’s gazes were all focused on the priest. He looked bored, now on his fifth round of Mass. There was no sign of Carla’s sister. In fact, there was not a single Hispanic in the church.

  Afterwards, Deborah once more watched the churchgoers leave and shake hands with the priest. A short while l
ater, feeling depressed and even more tired, she was the only one left outside.

  As the priest turned to walk back inside, Deborah decided to approach him. ‘Excuse me, Father.’

  He turned round to face her and smiled. His teeth were stained yellow at the front.

  ‘I’m looking for Maria Gonzalez.’

  The priest dabbed his forehead with a hankie. ‘You were sitting near the back, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. I’m trying to find Maria. Her sister Carla’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, miss, but I’ve not seen Ms Gonzalez in the church for months now.’

  ‘Months?’ According to Carla, her sister was a regular. Devout. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ Something about the man’s staccato response made her wonder. There was an edge to his voice, as if he didn’t like being asked unnecessary questions.

  Deborah’s eyes were drawn to the index finger of his right hand, which was stained nicotine brown. ‘I’ve traveled quite a distance, and I really hoped to see Maria today. Is it possible that you can tell me where she lives?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we’re not in the business of giving out the home addresses of those who worship with us. I’m sure you understand.’

  Deborah’s heart sank. ‘I only want to speak to‌—‌’

  ‘Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. I hear confessions and preach the Christian gospel. Whether you need to speak to one of my flock is not really for me to get involved with. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’ve to get ready for confession.’

  Deborah nodded as she shook the priest’s sweaty palm. ‘I appreciate your time.’

  He turned and walked slowly back inside the church, but something about Father Tobias Bruskewitz told Deborah that he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

  23

  Deborah sat for a while in her parked car, until the street lights came on. Her stomach rumbled for food. Suddenly a thin, stooped figure strode quickly past her car, books clutched to his chest.

  It was the priest.

  Deborah’s heart thumped and she wondered where he was going. Perhaps he’d finished confession and was going to visit friends. But his demeanor suggested someone who wasn’t about to wind down. Quite the opposite.