Fear and Loathing

by Hilary Norman

  ‘I’m ready,’ Leon said.

  CB chanced a swift look at him, saw something close to dark delight.

  ‘Me, too,’ Jerry said.

  CB didn’t look at him.

  ‘Andy?’ the boss said.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I’m ready,’ Andy said.

  ‘And what about you, CB?’

  He felt her gaze, those eyes that changed from gentle to brutal in an instant.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘I could use a little more gusto, CB,’ she said.

  He nodded. Forced his lips into a smile.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said again.

  Sean Reardon had a record, had been convicted in 2006 of a Second Offense Battery charge on a family member, now his ex-wife; had pled guilty and served time.

  ‘There’s more,’ Martinez told Sam early Wednesday afternoon. ‘The ex was – is – Vietnamese.’

  Sam leaned back in his chair, remembering Reardon’s reference to the Burtons’ marriage, his swift attempt to buy back credibility.

  ‘He got real upset about hate crimes, didn’t he?’

  ‘Maybe his own?’ Martinez said.

  ‘Let’s see what else we can get from Massachusetts,’ Sam said.

  ‘Reardon still hasn’t called us back.’ Martinez’s eyes were sharpening.

  ‘His sister was murdered,’ Sam said. ‘His grief seemed real to me.’

  They both absorbed the implications of a supposedly loving brother possibly being involved in the brutal killing of his sister and three others. By no means out of the question; Sam had witnessed firsthand a hideous fratricide a couple of years back.

  ‘Back to the hotel?’ Martinez said.

  Sam thought about the parents, and sighed.

  Got to his feet. ‘Let’s go.’

  He was easy to find this time. The only customer in the First Choice Bar, drinking Beck’s.

  Sam hoped he hadn’t been doing that for too long.

  ‘Do you have them?’ Reardon’s first words, soon as he saw them, precise and clear.

  Sober enough to interview.

  ‘Not yet,’ Sam answered. ‘But we would like to talk to you, Mr Reardon.’

  ‘We left a message for you yesterday,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Maybe you didn’t get it,’ Sam said.

  ‘I got it,’ Reardon said.

  His hostility was plain, and Sam checked again to ensure that they weren’t about to embark on a pointless conversation, because a beer or two might loosen the tongue, but anything more …

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call,’ Reardon said. ‘I guess I just wasn’t up to talking.’

  ‘No problem,’ Sam said.

  ‘I’m all yours now.’

  ‘We should probably take this somewhere more private,’ Martinez said.

  ‘What’s wrong with here?’

  ‘Not really a bar stool conversation,’ Sam said.

  ‘OK.’ Reardon slid off his stool, picked up his Beck’s and pointed to a corner table. ‘Private enough?’

  ‘Sure,’ Sam said. ‘So long as the place stays empty.’

  He studied Reardon as he moved, almost certain already that he was not one of the four, but aware that if this man was party to the killings, it didn’t mean he’d had to have been at the scene or even in Florida.

  ‘Is this to do with my ex?’ Reardon paused. ‘My history?’

  ‘Your conviction, you mean,’ Martinez said.

  Reardon sighed, then shrugged. ‘I guess I can’t offer you guys a drink, but maybe a cup of coffee?’

  ‘We’re good, thank you,’ Sam said.

  He motioned to one of the chairs and Reardon sat, facing them and the faux wood-paneled walls, while Sam sat on the banquette, Martinez between him and the other man, the detectives keeping the entrance in view, wanting early warning of the older Reardons perhaps coming to look for their son.

  Sean Reardon shifted in his seat, fingered the bottle on the table.

  ‘Times like this, I really miss smoking.’ He paused. ‘Not that I’ve ever known a time like this.’ He shook his head again. ‘God.’

  ‘When did you give up?’ Sam asked.

  ‘I didn’t. And I get it in restaurants, sure, but in bars?’

  ‘Where were you on Sunday evening, Mr Reardon?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Boston.’ He paused. ‘Why?’

  ‘Routine questions,’ Martinez said. ‘Where in Boston?’

  ‘I was at a birthday party at the Union.’ Reardon paused. ‘That’s the Union Oyster House. Oldest restaurant in America, so they say.’

  ‘Big party?’ Martinez asked.

  ‘About twenty people. Why?’

  ‘I already told you,’ Martinez said. ‘Routine.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Reardon said. ‘My sister was never murdered before.’

  Sam saw his jaw clench, the still-fresh wounds behind the anger, believed his pain was real, knew it ruled nothing out.

  ‘When were you last in Miami?’

  ‘January two years ago,’ Reardon said. ‘Pete threw a surprise party for Mary Ann’s thirtieth. Our parents came too. It was a happy time.’

  ‘Was that the last time you saw your sister?’ Martinez asked.

  ‘No. Mary Ann came to Boston at Christmas. She loved it, preferred it to Miami, but Pete was a real Florida guy. Though he liked visiting well enough too.’ He took a drink, put down the bottle again. ‘Next question.’

  ‘On Monday, at the medical examiner’s office,’ Sam said, ‘you talked about hate crimes.’

  ‘What is this crap?’ His face turned red. ‘You think I’m a racist? How the fuck—?’

  Sam noticed the bartender’s eyebrows lift.

  Reardon leaned forward in his chair, his voice lower. ‘I married a Vietnamese girl, you jerks.’

  ‘You assaulted your wife,’ Sam said quietly. ‘More than once.’

  ‘And I served my time,’ Reardon said. ‘I’m not proud of what I did, but it had nothing to do with race. Kim used to push my buttons, and I lost it a few times. I’ve had anger management counseling since then.’

  ‘Has it worked?’ Martinez asked.

  ‘I’d say so, yes.’

  It seemed to dawn on him suddenly, sheer horror widening his eyes. ‘You’re not serious. You can’t be going there. Because Molly was Chinese?’

  Sam and Martinez said nothing.

  ‘My own sister is dead.’ Reardon picked up the Beck’s, his hand shaking, then put it down again. ‘You’re out of your minds, or maybe you’re just sick.’

  ‘Were Mo Li Burton and your sister friends?’ Sam asked.

  Reardon shook his head in disgust. ‘Sure they were. And by the way, Molly never pronounced her name that way; she was Molly, plain and simple. Except she wasn’t plain and she certainly wasn’t simple.’

  ‘Living so close to Mary Ann,’ Sam went on, ‘I guess they were probably in and out of each other’s homes all the time?’

  ‘I guess. Maybe. I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Did you ever see them together, Mr Reardon?’

  ‘Sure. A few times. Not often.’

  ‘At Mary Ann’s thirtieth?’ Martinez asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Any other times?’ Martinez asked.

  ‘A couple of times, when I was down here, yes. So what?’

  ‘Did you mind seeing them together?’ Sam asked. ‘Them being such close friends?’

  ‘Why in hell would I mind?’ His anger was rising again.

  ‘Maybe Mo Li might have reminded you of Kim,’ Sam said.

  ‘What, are you stereotyping now?’ A sneer in with the anger. ‘Saying all Asians look the same?’

  ‘Is that what you think, Mr Reardon?’ Martinez said.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think.’ Reardon rose. ‘I think I’d like to tell you both to fuck off and leave me alone so I can take care of my parents.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sam said.

  ‘Jesus,’ Reardon said, and sa
t down again. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘We had to ask,’ Sam said.

  ‘Given your record,’ Martinez said.

  ‘I have something I’d like to ask,’ Reardon said, his voice lower.

  ‘Sure,’ Sam said.

  ‘Are you going to catch the stinking bastards who did that to my sister and her husband and their friends? Or are you going to carry on wasting time rubbing my nose in something I’m so ashamed of it hurts.’

  A group of men entered the bar, and Sam stood up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Reardon said. ‘We’re not finished.’

  ‘I’m going to buy you another beer,’ Sam said. ‘I’d say it’s the least I can do.’

  ‘You saying you believe me?’ Reardon looked up at him.

  ‘I’m a cop,’ Sam said. ‘I’m not allowed to just believe anyone.’

  Martinez got up. ‘I’ll get it. Another Beck’s, or something stronger?’

  ‘Scotch,’ Reardon said. ‘Rocks. Thank you.’

  Sam sat down again. ‘So. Let’s start over.’

  It had gotten them nowhere, they reflected on their way back to the station.

  Reardon supposed, theoretically, that Gary or Pete, or both, might have gotten themselves in deep with their gambling, but he doubted it, and he knew nothing about Molly’s family business. He could not imagine anyone hating any of the victims, found it hard to imagine the kind of people capable of such a crime.

  Sam and Martinez had both, going on instinct, pretty much ruled him out, even if he had beaten up on his Vietnamese wife. Reardon was still in shock and grieving for his sister, of that they were as sure as they could be.

  Martinez gave a sigh. ‘I guess it would have been too easy.’

  ‘Is it ever?’ Sam said.

  June 6

  Dr Sergio Antonio Gomez Vega, his wife Luisa and their children, sixteen-year-old Roberto and twelve-year-old Laura, had arrived back at Miami International early Thursday afternoon, their flight from Madrid on schedule; but by the time they’d retrieved their bags and car and taken Laura to Coral Gables (where she was staying over before her best friend Danielle Loeb’s eleventh birthday party next day), and Wendy Loeb had insisted they stay for a cup of coffee, it was after six when they finally pulled up in the driveway of their own house on Emerson Avenue in Surfside.

  ‘Hey, Rob, want to help your old man unload the trunk?’

  ‘Can’t we stick the car in the garage and do it later?’

  ‘So you can slump on the couch and leave your dad to do it?’ Luisa said from the front. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Dr Gomez popped the trunk. ‘Come on, son.’

  Rob opened his door. ‘I can do it without you, Dad. You’ll only put your back out.’

  ‘Good boy.’ His mother got the keys out of her purse. ‘I’ll go ahead, see what we have in the freezer.’

  ‘Couldn’t we have pizza?’ Rob asked. ‘I’m starved.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ his father said.

  ‘I’m not arguing,’ his mother said, getting out.

  She walked across the tiled driveway and up the three steps to their front door.

  Happy to be home.

  None of them knew they had company until after Rob had dumped the last of the bags in their hallway and kicked the door shut, while his dad drove his Acura TL into the garage and remote-closed the up-and-over door.

  ‘Please don’t kick the door,’ Luisa said, coming out of the kitchen.

  ‘Thanks for schlepping the bags, son,’ Rob said.

  ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ Luisa said.

  They didn’t hear them coming.

  Two men from the family room.

  Two from the back of the house, where the bedrooms were.

  Four strangers, all golden-haired, their hands black-gloved.

  All holding guns.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ Luisa said softly.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Rob said.

  He started to turn toward the front door, but the men moved swiftly, blocking his way, one of them sticking a gun right up against his neck.

  ‘Don’t hurt him,’ his mother said, then made a quiet, mewing sound of fear as one of the strangers took her right arm while another put his weapon against her temple. ‘Please.’

  ‘Where’s the girl?’ one of the men asked.

  ‘Not here,’ Luisa said. ‘Please don’t hurt my son.’

  ‘Where is she?’ the man said.

  ‘She isn’t here,’ Rob said. ‘She’s not coming back tonight.’

  The man with the gun to his mother’s head seemed to shrug.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  He had odd-looking blue eyes, Rob noted, probably contacts, then wondered crazily how he could even notice that.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Luisa asked.

  ‘Don’t you want to see your hubby?’ the man said.

  Terror shot up into her head like mercury rising, made her dizzy.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ Rob said. ‘What have you done to my dad?’

  ‘Shut up, kid,’ his gunman said.

  Two of them grabbed his arms, started walking him toward the door that led to the garage.

  ‘Dad!’ Rob yelled suddenly. ‘Dad, get out of there!’

  Luisa’s gunman glared at the teenager. ‘You want me to shoot your mom?’

  ‘No,’ Rob said. ‘Hell, no, please!’

  ‘Then shut up and do as you’re told.’

  ‘It’ll be all right, Roberto,’ Luisa said quietly to her son.

  ‘No,’ said her personal gunman. ‘It won’t.’

  June 7

  Now it felt personal.

  A second crime. Three victims this time, one of them a minor. A sixteen-year-old male. A teenager. A boy, hogtied and gassed with his parents in his father’s Acura sedan in the garage of their house on Emerson Avenue in Surfside.

  Another windshield message.

  Same white letter-size paper, same Baskerville font. Longer than the first, but to the same addressee.

  That was what made it personal.

  For the Personal Attention of Detective Samuel Becket,

  Miami Beach Police Department

  Observe these further repercussions, Detective.

  Generations down from the original sin.

  Let mourners grieve and rail at this punishment, but understand:

  This woman’s mother and papá bear responsibility for their loss.

  If others wish to perpetuate these crimes, let them move someplace like Réunion, where métissage is celebrated. (I use the French word, because our own is deemed offensive, and my intention is not to offend.)

  Just to punish.

  And to warn.

  I can’t stop you all.

  But I am saying my piece.

  Love Virginia

  No formal identification yet, but Mrs Wendy Loeb, the friend who’d found them, had named them as Dr Sergio Gomez, a dentist, his wife Luisa and their son, Roberto.

  Only their daughter, Laura, age twelve, spared, having been on a sleepover at her house in Coral Gables.

  Mercifully.

  But a twelve-year-old, having to face up to this …

  And if she had been with her family …

  No limits to this wickedness, clearly. No boundaries. And though Sam knew that the first person singular wording of the messages might be trickery, it felt like the thought process of an individual, probably directing a killing team, maybe a hit squad, maybe something less mercenary, more personal. The words more cold-blooded than ranting, not a note from a deranged psycho but from someone who had planned, deliberated, meticulously organized.

  Wendy Loeb had discovered the horror and called 911 at ten forty-eight. The dispatcher had directed her to leave the scene and wait outside for the police, had tried to keep her on the phone, but a neighbor, seeing her weeping on the sidewalk, had taken her in, and after that it had been impossible to maintain verbal communication.

  They spoke to Wen
dy Loeb in the neighbor’s kitchen.

  She was ashen-faced, trembling, her makeup smeared, her blonde hair wild, as if she’d torn at it, and they did what little they could to offer comfort, seeing in her haunted eyes that the horror would be etched in her memory forever.

  ‘It’s unbelievable,’ she said. ‘They were all drinking coffee in our house yesterday afternoon. It’s unbelievable. They’d had a lovely vacation, taken the kids out of school for a family celebration in Spain, and Luisa was tanned and beautiful, and Rob looked so handsome …’ She fought to stem tears. ‘I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it.’

  Convention and caution had it that the reporter of a crime might be a suspect, might have believed themselves to have been seen and be trying to lessen suspicion, might even be a game-playing psycho.

  Not the case here, both detectives were certain.

  Wendy Loeb wiped her eyes and explained that today was her daughter’s eleventh birthday, which was why Dr Gomez had driven the family from MIA via Coral Gables, so that Laura and Dani could spend the night and get ready for her party together.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said abruptly. ‘We have to cancel.’ Her eyes filled again. ‘I haven’t told the girls anything yet. I called my husband, Al, at his office – he’s probably there by now. We agreed we shouldn’t tell Laura anything until we’re prepared.’ She shook her head. ‘God.’

  ‘Do you know if Laura has other close relatives?’ Sam’s mind was buzzing on two fronts: concern for the twelve-year-old, but also remembering the stressing of ‘mother and papá’ in the killer’s note – and were Luisa Gomez’s parents living in the United States? Were they alive, period?

  ‘I don’t know, though I got the impression that any close family would have been going to Spain for that celebration.’

  ‘Is it possible for Laura to stay with you until arrangements can be made?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Of course.’ She shook her head again.

  ‘That’s good, ma’am.’ Martinez felt for her. One minute, a birthday party to prepare, the next, sheer horror and her home turned into a place of mourning.

  ‘Do you think we should tell Laura,’ she asked anxiously, ‘or should we leave it to someone experienced from the police, or …?’

  ‘Someone will take you home, Mrs Loeb,’ Sam said. ‘Help you out.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’