The Meter Maid Murders

by Andrew Delaplaine

  Diabolical, he thought. It was the only word to describe his cold-blooded viciousness.

  Flashing lights bounced off the rain-soaked alleyway as Billy arrived with his TV crew. It was hot, humid, steamy and lurid.

  “What the fuck?”

  Billy found Bricker smoking a Joyita and leaning against the back door of the Deuce where Boobs McCoy and some customers were looking through the window.

  “I missed him, Billy. I had him right in my grasp, and I missed him.”

  “What the fuck happened?”

  “He lured her into this alley. He put one of those Bob’s Barricades in front of the alley, partially blocked access, knowing she’d take a shortcut to Fourteenth Street by slipping past the barricade. I was right behind her, but I had to stop to move the barricade, and when I entered the alley, the whole place exploded in flames. Like in that movie, ‘The Ten Commandments,’ you know? The killer’d put gas in the alley, and with all the rain, you couldn’t tell it was gas. He had to be in a doorway watching her pass as he dropped a match, trapping the unlucky bitch in the middle of a raging furnace.”

  “Burned pretty bad?”

  “You think she was black before? There wasn’t anything left of her to deal with but the paperwork. Burned beyond recognition.”

  Billy rubbed his stomach.

  “And I had barbecue tonight.”

  “Not funny, Billy-Boy, not funny.”

  “We got a real mess on our hands.”

  “William fucking Shakespeare couldn’t-a put it any sweeter, Billy. I’d certainly say it was a mess.”

  “Well, did you get a look at him?

  “Nope.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “Nope. I was moving the Bob’s Barricade.”

  “Do you have a clue?”

  “Nope.”

  “You gotta have something, Jake. You knew who the victim was gonna be. How could you fuck this up?”

  “Shut up, you’re getting too loud.”

  There were a hundred officials milling around the alley—medical examiners, cops, firemen, emergency personnel, plus the hundreds of onlookers and the media that was pouring in every minute.

  “But you must have seen something.”

  “I saw her go up in flames like Joan of fuckin’ Arc, that’s what I saw.”

  “Well, I’ll have to interview you. You were first on the scene.”

  Billy’s camera crew set up and Bricker did an interview after adjusting his Trilby to achieve a more rakish angle. He merely said he didn’t know too much because it was such a sudden surprise to see all the flames roar up, and there was an ongoing investigation, blah, blah, blah.

  But Bricker felt a thrill run through his body when he realized he was on camera. After it was all over (all four minutes of it), he wondered if he should’ve followed that first impulse he had in high school to hitchhike to California to be in movies.

  He was certainly handsome enough. People always told him that. Well, women always told him that. Men didn’t say shit. (Except at the gay bars like Twist or Score or Mova where he got hit on every time he went in to question somebody.)

  “Let me do my wrap and we’ll talk after.”

  “No, let’s meet tomorrow. We’ll talk then. We’ll get lunch at Joe’s Stone Crab.”

  Bricker double-parked illegally in front of Joe’s Take Out the next afternoon at one. The valet came running. Bricker flashed his badge. The valet held up his hands in a “no problemo” gesture. Bricker smirked. (He loved doing this.)

  Billy was already inside. Bricker came up behind him.

  “Stick ‘em up.”

  Billy looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes.

  “I got two orders of the medium claws, an order of hash browns to split, the seafood bisque for me. What else you want?”

  “Maybe a half order of the fried oysters?” Bricker suggested.

  “They’re swimming in grease,” Billy warned.

  Bricker patted his tummy.

  “You’re right—I won’t be able to kick your ass at basketball later. A beer, then. El Presidente.”

  “Get me one.”

  Bricker went to the self-serve cooler and took out two beers.

  “You pay—I paid last time,” Bricker said.

  “Yeah—you wanna eat here?”

  Bricker looked over the crowded room.

  “Nah—too busy. It’s nice out. We’ll eat by Government Cut.”

  They collected their take out bags and went out to Bricker’s car, got in and drove down by South Pointe Park a couple of blocks away and took their lunch down to the huge rocks that line Government Cut, the main entry for shipping into the Port of Miami. A Smith and Wollensky restaurant was situated right there on the Cut, and people went down on the weekends to have a drink and watch all the big cruise ships leave port for their Caribbean voyages.

  Bricker and Billy settled themselves on some of the boulder sized granite rocks lining the Cut, under a large and shady seagrape tree, and opened up the ultimate delicacy to be had on South Beach: stone crabs from Joe’s. The sun sparkled on the aquamarine water in the Cut, currently tossing about with choppy waves as the tide went out. In the distance they could see the towers of downtown Miami and Brickell Avenue where all the banks and law offices were.

  “Tell me more about me being an accessory.”

  “After the fact.”

  “Whatever.”

  “It’s the law, Billy-Boy.”

  “Then you’re an accessory, too!”

  “Billeeeee. You’re getting petty about all this. It’s hard enough to get ahead in the world. Look at the fuckin’ chance we’ve got. Lissen, both of us have a golden opportunity to become the best at what we do.” He stuffed his mouth with hash browns. “Mmphhh. These are so fuckin’ good.”

  “The best at what we do?” Billy was incredulous. “Jake, you’re nuts. This is like going in for a test at school and knowing all the answers. You’re not going to become the Great American Detective when you catch this guy—what are you fucking ‘detecting’? You already know who he’s going to kill, fer Chrissakes!”

  Bricker paused to take that in.

  “Yeah, but nobody has to know that, do they?” Then he stuffed his mouth full of hash browns again and turned his attention to the bottle of El Presidente.

  “I still don’t get why I shouldn’t break this story.”

  “Because you should have taken that tape to the authorities. By not revealing right away that you had it, you’re now an accessory to the crime.”

  Billy made a gargling sound as he cut his lower lip on the razor sharp edge of a stone crab shell.

  “What the fuck? I did go to the authorities. I went to a cop working the case. I went to you! You’re the one who wants to suppress it!”

  Bricker put down the stone crab he was working on, ripped open one of those moist wipes they give you to clean your hands after a messy meal, and handed Billy some napkins to staunch the blood oozing from his lower lip.

  “Okay, so I’m willing to take a chance. Because of that, you’re in it with me. Let me explain a little bit about how our criminal justice system works here in Miami Beach, Billy-Boy. I can tell the higher-ups that you brought me the tape yesterday, or I can tell them the truth—that you brought it to me way back when Miss May was still alive. In any case, they will believe me because I’m a cop. You, on the other hand, are a detested reporter. Everybody in the system backs up the cop whether they believe the cop or not. You, the reporter, however, in the eyes of the system—not me, mind you, but the system—are a slime-bucket scumbag. You’re just out there for the glory, and of course, the ratings. You are a lower-than-low form of life that everybody in the criminal justice system hates.”

  Billy paused while he took it all in, dabbing his lower lip.

  “Unless they want press, like you, Bricker! And you’re calling me a slime-bucket?”

  “Well, you may have a point, and you might be entirely correct. Bu
t the point I’m making is that your word ain’t worth shit against mine, comprende?”

  “So, where do reporters stand in the food chain of life? That is, when compared to meter maids?”

  Bricker looked at Billy with a sad expression and held up his index finger and his thumb to indicate “one inch.”

  “Billy-Boy, here’s how we’re gonna handle it. I shouldn’t get all the credit. When I catch the guy—or when we catch the guy—you’ll help me—you’ll do the story that breaks it wide open and we’ll tell everybody you remembered the tape just before we catch the guy. And then we went out to check up on whichever meter maid it is that’s gonna get killed that week, and save her. We save the bitch. We’re heroes. A team, we did it together. And nobody’s gotta know about those meter maids that, uh, slipped through our fingers... so to speak.”

  “But what about all the meter maids that die between the one that died last week and the one we save when we catch the killer?”

  Bricker looked at Billy like he was the biggest moron on Planet Earth.

  “Billy-Boy, I want you to be honest with yourself. If a couple more meter maids have to die, would you really call that a grave loss of life?”

  Billy paused, then finally shook his head No.

  “I guess not. Not really.”

  Bricker patted Billy on the back.

  “Oh, and I almost forgot to tell you, with all your whining and complaining.”

  “What?”

  “I know who the killer is.”

  “You know who did the murders? You know?”

  “I got it all figured out,” Bricker said casually.

  “You know?”

  “Well, it’s all a theory at this point. I’ll show you tomorrow. Ten o’clock, when he goes on shift. Let’s have breakfast at the Front Porch tomorrow and I’ll take you to the meter maid murderer. But we can’t catch him till he makes a move.”

  Bricker’s cell phone went off to the strains of The Halls of Montezuma.

  Billy rolled his eyes.

  “Bricker here,” he said in his suave, macho voice. Billy rolled his eyes again. “Sure, be there in”—he eyed the stone crabs left still to be finished—“in thirty minutes. I’m down in the Gables.”

  A pause.

  “What am I doing down in the Gables? Rwanda, I’m following up leads on the meter maid murders, that’s what I’m doing down in the Gables.”

  He hung up in a snit.

  “She’s one stupid fucking bitch, that Rwanda.”

  “She’s smarter than you, asshole. She knows you’re lying.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Bricker dipped a claw freshly cleaned of its cracked shell in the special mustard sauce and slid it into his mouth, pulling the claw back out, revealing the translucent membrane that held the crab meat. His eyes closed in heavenly contemplation of the delicate flavor.

  “Since when did you always want to be in the Marines?’

  “Since I was a kid.”

  “And so why didn’t you join?”

  “Bad knees. Remember how I was always in pain playing football in high school?”

  “Yeah, now I do. Rwanda—what’d she want?”

  “Chief wants me at the station—got some hot shot down from Quantico. He’s just getting’ in.”

  Billy was interested.

  “Hey, if there’s a story...”

  “Don’t worry, Billy-Boy, if there’s a story, you’ll get it first. Remember they were sending down some kind of profiler to help us ID the meter maid murderer?”

  “Yeah, that’s right... So, why not just tell me who the killer is?”

  Bricker smiled that killer smile of his.

  “Not so fast, Billy-Boy. Tomorrow after breakfast.”

  9 – Louie Lewis of the FBI

  Jake Bricker made his way into the reception area of Chief Ramirez’s office to find a hostile Rwanda Tutsi-Hutu drilling him with her beady little eyes surrounded by pudgy cheeks.

  “The Gables, huh?”

  “Lissen, Rwanda,” Bricker said, leaning on her desk with his palms face down in a slightly threatening manner. “Get off my back.”

  “Or you’ll do what, big shot?”

  “Maybe I’ll seduce Boobs McCoy. Make you cry like the big black baby you are.”

  Her mouth opened wide, revealing about half the city’s annual budget in gold grill work on her large buck teeth. But before Rwanda could lay into him, her intercom crackled.

  “Did you get Bricker, Rwanda?”

  “He jus’ walkin’ in, Chief.”

  “Send him in. And you come too. Want you to take notes.”

  Rwanda lifted her large frame and grabbed a pad and pencil.

  “After you, smart ass copper.”

  Bricker preceded the lovely Rwanda into the chief’s office where they found the FBI special agent and city Comptroller Freddie Flumenbaum there with the mayor and the chief.

  “Bricker, this is Special Agent Louie Lewis with the FBI’s Serial Crimes Unit. He just got in from Quantico.”

  “Both the director and the president are most concerned about this case, gentlemen.”

  Bricker was sure he hadn’t seen a weirder looking character than this Louie Lewis in quite some time. He simply did not look the part of a special agent with the FBI. (And Bricker was all about looks.) The first people Lewis reminded Bricker of were Charlie Chaplin and Hitler or even Steve Buscemi. He had a pencil-thin mustache like the director John Waters. He had black hair slicked down and combed (plastered was more like it) to one side of his head at an angle. He had a mean, angry mouth and twitched a lot. He crossed his legs elegantly in his chair, and leaned over on one thigh in a very casual and yet at the same time awkward position that looked uncomfortable. One shoulder was hunched up and he gave off the impression that he might be crippled. Bricker had the impression Lewis had a mean streak, worse than Major Bunstable’s. But, based on the perverse glint in his eye, there was no question that he loved his work. When he smiled, there was one tooth that had an odd angle that threw his whole mouth out of whack.

  “I thought it might be a good idea to have Detective Bricker here, since he was first cop on the scene of the last meter maid murder, in case you wanted to ask him some questions,” the chief said.

  Mayor Germane piped in.

  “I hope you enjoy your visit here, Special Agent Louie—”

  “It’s Lewis, Mr. Mayor, Louie Lewis.”

  “Uh, yeah, right. Well, uh, we hope you won’t be here too long. We want to catch this guy. He’s—no pun intended—he’s killing our tourism.”

  “Rwanda, take some notes, okay?” Rwanda settled herself. The chief continued. “What we need to know, Louie, is what kind of madman are we dealing with out there?”

  “That’s a very interesting question, Chief Ramirez,” Lewis said with squinting eyes as he gathered his thoughts.

  “I know. I just asked it.”

  There you go, Chief, thought Bricker. No bullshit from Ramirez.

  Rwanda interrupted.

  “Excuse me, Special Agent. Is it L-o-u-i-s or L-e-w-i-s?” Rwanda asked.

  “Well, actually, it’s Louis Lewis. But I call myself Louie Lewis so it doesn’t sound like I am repeating myself.”

  “But how’s it spelled?”

  “My first name or my last name?”

  “Both.”

  The chief was clearly exasperated.

  “Does this matter, Rwanda?”

  “I’m takin’ notes here, Chief.”

  “I’m kinda curious, too,” added Bricker.

  Mayor Germane jumped in.

  “Can we move on? Tell us about the person out there killing our meter maids.”

  “Who is devastating our revenue base,” added Flumenbaum.

  Lewis exhaled slowly.

  “We are dealing with a very warped personality. I’m probably the world’s foremost expert on the twisted, mendacious mentality...” Lewis began.

  The only problem with Lewis beginnin
g his dissertation, Bricker thought after the first twenty minutes nonstop was that there didn’t seem to be any end to it.

  “... This man is smarter than the smartest. He’s cunning. He’s calculating. He’s sly. He’s obsessive. He’s got everything planned down to the last detail...”

  Bricker found himself glancing at his watch. Lewis had been at it for over an hour now, and he noticed Flumenbaum and Germane struggling to keep their eyes open. Rwanda was sweating like a pack mule, halfway through the brand new note pad. The chief loosened his tie.

  “...It will take a genius to penetrate the dark mystery enshrouding this mad killer’s warped, tortured mindset...”

  At about an hour and a half, it looked to Bricker like the chief was dozing off. Lucky for him, Bricker was not sitting, but standing against the wall.

  “Stop!” Rwanda called out.

  Everybody jumped a little, coming back to reality.

  “What happened?” shouted the mayor.

  “I’m out of paper.”

  Louie Lewis narrowed his eyes and stared menacingly at Rwanda Tutsi-Hutu.

  When Bricker finally got clear of the chief’s office, he called Alice to find out when she got off work.

  “Not till six-thirty,” she said, perking up whenever he called.

  “So, you comin’ to my house?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said coyly.

  He actually looked forward to his little trysts with Alice. He’d stopped seeing a couple of other girls and focused on Alice. There was something about her. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. But he knew that somehow, whatever happened between them in the future, he was going to save her from her intended career as a meter maid on the PMS Force. A “Good Turn,” he kept telling himself. Something he had to do to save another person from inescapable misery. He’d always felt he had to do something Good since he let his monthly $20 contribution to Save the Children lapse when they changed the expiration date on his Visa card and he didn’t tell Save the Children the new one.

  Bricker drove down to his house, went in and slipped on a bathing suit under his trouser pants and headed down to the beach at the park on Second Street.

  He left his car with Fernando, the valet at Prime 112 (they kept it up front and never charged him, but he gave Fernando a ten spot anyway). He ran in to say Hi to the bartender he’d been seeing (but hadn’t seen since getting started with Alice), had a beer and then went out for a swim, leaving his pants and shirt in the car.