Charles Willeford_Hoke Moseley 01

by Miami Blues

  “I’m afraid, Bill,” Hoke said, “that I’d have to confirm her story. She did drop him off, and then leave immediately, and I followed her until she got on the ramp to I-Ninety-five. You can’t charge her for dropping her common-law husband off downtown. If she claims she didn’t know he was going to rob the store, we can’t hold her as an accessory.”

  “Is she really that dumb, or is it an act of some kind?”

  “It’s consistent, whatever it is. Why don’t we just take her statement and put her on a bus for Belle Glade so she can get her damned car.”

  “You mean just let her go?”

  “I don’t see what else we can do. Her statement will clear up the death of Martin Waggoner, and we can always find her if we need her later. Okeechobee’s a small town. We’ll tell her not to leave Okeechobee or come back to Miami again, and that’s it.”

  “That’s just hearsay. We still can’t prove that Junior killed Martin, or broke his finger.”

  “We’ll send his picture up to those two Georgia boys. Maybe they can identify him from the picture. At any rate, I’ll call the assistant state attorney, and tell her about Susan’s statement. She can decide whether to close the case or not. It’s not up to us, anyway.”

  Henderson and Sanchez stayed in the interrogation room to obtain a statement from Susan Waggoner, and Hoke went back to his office. He found Violet Nygren’s phone number, and called the office.

  “Thank you,” a female voice answered, and then, for five minutes, Hoke listened to Muzak as he held the phone to his ear.

  “Thank you for waiting,” a man’s voice said. “How may I help you?”

  “Is this the state attorney’s office?”

  “Yes, it is. How may I help you?”

  “This is Sergeant Moseley, Homicide. I want to talk to Miss Violet Nygren, one of your assistant state attorneys. This is the number she gave me.”

  “I don’t think we’ve got anybody here by that name.”

  “Yes, you have. She was assigned to that case at the airport. A guy got his finger broke and died from shock. Martin Waggoner.”

  “I don’t know her. What’s her name again?”

  “Nygren. N-Y-G-R-E-N. She was young and had just joined the office. A UM Law School graduate.”

  “Okay. Let me take a look at the roster. Can you hold the line a minute?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry,” the man said, when he came back on the line, “but we don’t have any Nygrens on the roster. If you want me to, I’ll check with a few people here and then call you back. I don’t know half the people here myself. We’ve got one hundred and seventy-one assistant state attorneys, you know.”

  “That many? I thought you only had about a hundred.”

  “We got some more money last year. But they come and go, you know. Want me to check and call you back?”

  “No. I’ll hold the line while you check. I like listening to the Muzak.”

  “That’s on the other line. I can’t get you any Muzak on this phone.”

  “Never mind. Just find out what happened to Violet Nygren.”

  Hoke lit a cigarette. He raised his shoulder to hold the phone against his head and examined his hands. They were shaking slightly, as the reaction finally settled in, but as long as he kept busy he wouldn’t have to think about it. As he butted the cigarette in the desk ashtray, a woman’s voice came on the line.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” Hoke said. “Who are you?”

  “Tim asked me to tell you about Violet. You are Sergeant Moseley, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Violet Nygren resigned a few weeks back. She got married, but I don’t know her married name. But I know she married a chiropractor out in Kendall, and I can get her married name for you tomorrow, if you like. I didn’t know Violet very well, but I know she wasn’t happy here as a state attorney. I don’t think she’d’ve been with us much longer even if she hadn’t got married and quit—if you know what I mean.”

  “I think I do. But it’s not important. Somebody must’ve taken over her caseload, so I’ll just send a memo over to your office, and you people can take it from there.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

  “You’ve helped a lot. Thanks.”

  When Henderson and Sanchez went into Captain Brownley’s office to go over the written report, Hoke was excluded from the meeting and told that his turn would be next.

  Hoke could see the three of them through the smudged glass walls of Brownley’s office, and he felt a little apprehension at being left out. Brownley was a good reader, and if he spotted any discrepancies, Hoke knew that he could be in some deep trouble. Hoke went into the men’s room to take a leak and two younger Homicide detectives congratulated him warmly, so warmly that he decided not to go down to the cafeteria for coffee and a sweet roll. As far as his fellow police officers were concerned, the department had won one for a change. The robbery-murder on Flagler and the killing of the suspect would only rate a three- or four-inch story in the local sections of the Miami newspapers, but it was big news within the department.

  Hoke returned to his little office and waited, trying to sort out his feelings, and came to the conclusion that Freddy Frenger, Jr., AKA Ramon Mendez, had played out the game to the end and didn’t really mind losing his life in a last-ditch attempt to win. Junior would have been good at checkers or chess, thought Hoke, where sometimes a poor player can beat a much better one if he is aggressive and stays boldly on the attack. That was Junior, all right, and if you turned your head away from the board for an instant, to light a cigarette or to take a sip of coffee, he would steal one of your pieces. Junior didn’t have to play by the rules, but Hoke did. Nevertheless, Hoke decided to keep this checkers analogy to himself. No matter how he rationalized his actions, Hoke suspected that the real reason he had killed Freddy Frenger was that the man had invaded his room at the Eldorado Hotel and beat the shit out of him. And if he could do it once, he could do it a second time. On the other hand, to think that way was just another oversimplification. After all, Frenger had tried to pull his gun, so Hoke had shot in self-defense: the extra round he had put into the back of the man’s head was merely insurance. But any way Hoke looked at it, the quality of life in Miami would be improved immeasurably now that Freddy Frenger was no longer out on the streets …

  Henderson opened the door. Ellita Sanchez, smiling, was with him.

  “Your turn, Hoke,” Henderson said.

  “We’ll wait for you down in the cafeteria,” Sanchez said.

  Hoke shook his head. “Not in the cafeteria. I don’t want a bunch of people coming around.” Hoke looked at his wrist-watch. “Christ, it’s after four A.M. Why don’t you guys go home? You don’t have to wait for me.”

  “We’ll wait for you in the parking lot,” Henderson said. “Then we’ll go get a beer.”

  Henderson and Sanchez left before Hoke could say anything else.

  Captain Brownley was on the phone. As Hoke hesitated outside the office, Brownley held up his left hand, signaling Hoke to wait. Hoke lit a cigarette, and tried not to look through the glass door at Brownley. At last, Brownley hung up the phone, stood, and beckoned for Hoke to come in.

  “Sit down, Hoke. I see you started smoking again.” Brownley sat down, and put his elbows on the desk. Hoke pulled the ashtray toward him as he sat down, and stubbed out his cigarette.

  “I never really quit, captain. I just abstained for a while, that’s all.”

  “How d’you feel?”

  “Still a little shaky, but I’ll be all right.”

  “I know you will. But for an experienced police officer, that was just about the dumbest trick you ever pulled. Not only should you have waited for backup, but going after a man like Frenger called for a SWAT team.”

  “I was afraid he was going to get away—”

  “That’s no excuse. You knew he was armed, even if you didn’t know he�
��d killed Wulgemuth and his bodyguard.”

  “Maybe I should’ve waited a little longer, but—

  “Shut up! How in the hell can I chew your ass if you keep interrupting me?” Brownley frowned, took a cigar out of the humidor on his desk, and began to unwrap it.

  Brownley’s face was creased with thousands of tiny wrinkles. His face reminded Hoke of a piece of black silk that has been wadded into a tiny ball and then smoothed out again. But the captain’s cheeks were grayish with fatigue, and there were a few gray hairs in his mustache as well—gray hairs Hoke hadn’t noticed before. How old was Brownley, anyway? Forty-five, forty-six? Certainly no more than forty-seven, but he looked much much older.

  Brownley, turning his cigar as he lighted it with a kitchen match, looked at Hoke with unreadable eyes. The whites of his eyes were slightly yellow, and Hoke had never noticed that before either.

  “I just got through talking to the chief,” Brownley said, “and we made a compromise. I’m going to write you a letter of reprimand, and it’ll go into your permanent file.”

  Hoke cleared his throat. “I deserve it.”

  “Damned right! The chief, on the other hand, is going to write you a letter of commendation. You might be puzzled by the ambiguity of his letter, but it’ll be a commendation. That will also go into your permanent file. So one letter will, in a sense, cancel out the other.”

  “I don’t deserve a letter of commendation.”

  “I know you don’t, but this case’ll give the chief something positive to talk about at the University Club next week, and besides, it’ll help you out at the hearing. And in a way, maybe you do deserve a commendation from the chief. That was good police work, getting Sanchez to call Ramon Mendez—”

  “Who?”

  “Ramon Mendez. Sanchez’s cop cousin in Hollywood.”

  “I forgot for a minute. Mendez was one of Frenger’s names—”

  “I know. But the fact that we had at least one Broward County officer at the scene helped to get us off the hook when we entered Broward’s jurisdiction. Because of the seriousness of the crime, we probably would’ve been okay anyway, but having a Broward officer present helped save a little face. This is politics, Hoke, not police work. I’m sending Officer Mendez a commendation, as well as one for Henderson and Sanchez. And your letter of reprimand will be fairly mild, because the chief just confirmed my majority.” Brownley puffed on his cigar. “As of the first of the month, you can call me Major Brownley.”

  “Congratulations, Willie.” Hoke grinned.

  “Major Willie.” Brownley took a cigar out of the humidor and offered it to Hoke, but Hoke waved it away.

  “I’ll stick to cigarettes, major. What happens to me now?”

  “As you know, there’s no standard operating procedure. Usually, when a cop shoots a suspect, we just send him home to wait for the hearing or we give him a desk job while he waits. If the shooting’s accidental or if it looks like a grand jury matter, the officer’s usually suspended, with or without pay. In your case, as long as you’re on sick leave anyway, you just go home and wait for the hearing.”

  “There’re a few things to clear up first. I want to call San Francisco, and—”

  “You’ll go home and stay there. Don’t come into the station until the hearing. You can call Sanchez, and let her clear up any loose ends. Don’t talk to the press or to anyone else about the case. You’re not going to have any problems at the hearing. Deadly force was justified, and you’ll be cleared.”

  “All right. I’ll call Sanchez. She can handle things all right.”

  “She likes you, too. Of course, when I told you to win her over, I didn’t mean for you to prove what a good shot you were, but at least she’s not complaining about her supervisor.”

  “It won’t be the same as working with Bill Henderson, but then, Bill can’t type eighty-five words a minute, and she can. So I guess it’ll even out.”

  “Get the hell out of here, Hoke. I’ve still got some calls to make.”

  Hoke got to his feet. “I’d like to go up to Riviera Beach to spend a few days with my father.”

  “Okay. Just call in every day. As long’s we can reach you by phone.”

  They shook hands, and Hoke left the office.

  When Hoke got to the station parking lot, Henderson and Sanchez were waiting for him. The morning air was moist and hot, and Hoke could feel his pores opening. The humid air felt good after the stale air-conditioning of the station, and Hoke didn’t really mind the little rivulets of perspiration that rolled down his sides.

  Ellita Sanchez had removed her blue faille suit jacket, and her upper lip was beaded lightly with sweat. Henderson’s heavy shoulders slumped with fatigue, and his eyes were bloodshot. Hoke knew that neither one of them wanted a beer as much as they wanted a bed, but he also suspected that they were as reluctant as he was to break up a process they had shared, a certain sense of teamwork.

  “How’d you make out, Hoke?” Henderson said.

  “I’m still on sick leave, but I’m supposed to stay away from the station until the hearing. Brownley said I could go up to Riviera Beach, though, and stay with my father if I want to, and I think I will.”

  “You haven’t been up to Riviera for a while, have you?”

  “’Bout a year ago, when the old man got married again—remember?”

  “Let’s go to the Seven-Eleven,” Sanchez suggested. “You guys can get a beer, and I’ll get a grape Slurpee. My throat’s dry, but it doesn’t feel like a beer for breakfast.”

  “Suits me,” Henderson said. “We can take my car.”

  “Let’s walk,” Hoke said. “It’s only a block. We can stretch our legs.”

  They walked to the 7-Eleven, down the narrow Overtown sidewalk, Hoke beside Sanchez, with Henderson lumbering a few feet ahead of them.

  “You ever been to Riviera Beach, Ellita?”

  “Never. I’ve been to Palm Beach, but not to Riviera.”

  “Palm Beach is right across the inlet from Singer Island, and Singer’s a part of the Riviera Beach municipality, with the best beach in Florida. So, if you went as far as the northern end of Palm Beach, you were looking across at Singer. I grew up in Riviera Beach, but I didn’t know it was actually called Riviera until I was almost twenty years old. We always called it Rivera. Rivera—that’s what everybody called it. Funny, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve noticed that a lot of Miamians call Miami Mi-am-ah. I guess it’s what you grow up with.”

  “In Riviera, that’s how we can tell the natives from the tourists. Most of us still say Rivera.”

  When they got to the 7-Eleven, Sanchez asked the manager to fix her a grape Slurpee. Hoke and Henderson went to the freezer. Henderson got a Bud, and Hoke reached deep into the box to get a cold Coors. Each paid for his own drink, and then they went outside to drink them. A few blocks away, in the nascent morning light, they could see the vultures circling above the county courthouse tower, preparing to fly to the city dump for their breakfast feeding.

  “That yellow Nova,” Sanchez said, pointing to the dusty car parked by the Dempsey Dumpster, “has been there for three days. I remember seeing it.”

  “Probably the manager’s car,” Henderson said. “There’s no one else around here.”

  Sanchez walked down to the car. “It’s got Michigan plates.”

  Henderson cracked open the glass door to the store. The manager had The Star open on the counter and was reading it. He looked up. “You from Michigan?” Henderson said.

  “What?”

  “Are you from Michigan?”

  “Michigan?” The manager shook his head. “Ponce. In Puerto Rico.”

  “That your car? The yellow Nova?”

  The Puerto Rican shook his head. “My wife’s got my car. She drives me to work, and picks me up. That car’s been parked there for three days.”

  “You guys better come down here a minute!” Sanchez raised her voice. She threw her waxed cup, still half full, into the dum
pster. Hoke and Henderson joined her at the back of the Nova. “D’you smell anything funny?”

  Henderson bent over and sniffed at the trunk. He smiled broadly at Hoke. “Take a sniff, Hoke. Be my guest.”

  Hoke took a deep sniff at the trunk lid, where it joined the body. The odor was unmistakable; it was the familiar odor of urine, feces, death. Hoke raised his head, returning Henderson’s knowing metal-studded smile with a wry grin.

  “You two stay here,” Hoke said. “I’ll walk back to the station and send down a squad car—”

  “No you won’t,” Henderson said. “Go home, Hoke! Just get in your car and go home. We’ll take care of the body. You’re on sick leave and off duty. Remember?”

  “He’s right, Hoke,” Sanchez said. “It’ll be at least another hour before we can run a make and get a warrant to open the trunk. Go on home. Please.”

  “But I’d like to see—”

  “Beat it!” Henderson said, pushing Hoke’s shoulder.

  “All right. But call me tomorrow, Sanchez. There’re a few things—”

  “I’ll call you,” Sanchez said. “But right now you’d better get going.”

  “You call me, too, Bill.”

  “I will, I will. Good-bye, Hoke.”

  Hoke returned to the police station parking lot and got into his car. As he drove out of the lot he could see Ellita Sanchez leaning back against the trunk of the yellow Nova. Henderson was probably still in the store, using the manager’s phone.

  Hoke drove down to Biscayne Boulevard and turned north, hugging the right lane so he could make the cut-off at the MacArthur Causeway for Miami Beach. Feeling slightly guilty about leaving Henderson and Sanchez stuck at the 7-Eleven, he pulled down the-visor against the morning sun rising above South Beach and headed for the Eldorado Hotel, where Old Man Zuckerman was waiting for him in the lobby with a fresh, neatly folded paper napkin.

  The following news item was published in The Okeechobee Bi-Weekly News:

  VINEGAR PIE WINS

  OCALA—Mrs. Frank Mansfield, formerly Ms. Susan Waggoner, of Okeechobee, won the Tri-County Bake-Off in Ocala yesterday with her vinegar pie entry. The recipe for her winning entry is as follows: