by Paul Levine
Richie owed me a favor because I got him probation after he broke into an airline computer system and arranged a million frequent-flier miles for himself and every member of the county commission. The commissioners hadn't asked him to, but everybody who knew them thought they had, and a couple decided it was a pretty good idea in any event.
So Richie Bergman stood at my side while a potbellied, retirement-age sergeant sat on his stool at the property-room window and looked us over. "Got your name here, Lassiter, but not this young fellow. Say, son, you just do some time?"
Richie shook his head and stifled a sneeze.
"'Cause you're so pale, you look like you just did eighteen months at Dade Correctional."
"I spend a lot of time in my room," Richie said honestly.
"And what the hell you doing with that?" the sergeant demanded, gesturing toward Richie's right hand.
"TV. Like to watch it while we work," Richie said, holding a computer monitor for the old sergeant to see.
After letting us know what a favor he was doing, and how if the lieutenant would find out, his ass was grass, and don't forget him at Christmas, the sergeant let us in, and we laid the contents of the locker, M. Diamond Case No. 91-1376-A, on a scarred walnut table in the back of the room. The sergeant returned to the window, and I heard the volume crank up on his TV. Local news. Rick Gomez had the latest on the computer sex murders, as Channel 8 had dubbed them. The latest was that the state's case against a local English professor had collapsed due to the incompetence of one Jacob Lassiter, Esquire. "No new leads," Gomez told his audience, his voice filled with concern, "and no comment from the special prosecutor." Then I heard Nick Fox's voice, tinny and distant, following me like a vengeful ghost. But he wasn't talking about the murders. No, it was his monthly crime-prevention tip, filler for the station and free publicity for an ambitious politician.
"Plant some fear in burglars," Nick Fox was saying. "Under your windows, plant thorny bushes that bite. Try cactus or crown of thorns. Use the Spanish bayonet, the limeberry, or the carissa, all burglar biters. In law enforcement we think of them as antipersonnel plants."
Horticulture, Miami style.
Richie moved quickly, plugging in the cables, finding an outlet for Marsha's computer, hooking up the monitor he had brought along. He punched some keys, scanned the directories, found what he wanted, and went to work. I opened my briefcase, pulled out a folder containing the photos taken at the scene by Dr. Whitson, the young assistant medical examiner. There was the body, head jammed into the monitor, eight-by-tens from every angle. There were close-ups of the neck, the bruises and fingernail marks clearly visible. If Whitson couldn't hack it as a canoe maker, he could always make a living shooting pictures at weddings and bar mitzvahs.
There were several shots of the room, a couple catching Nick Fox in the background. I studied them. His forehead was wrinkled in thought. Grief? I wondered. Or concern for his own hide? Then there was a photo of Pam Maxson happily digging her nails into my arm and a close-up of the marks themselves, Charlie's lesson that nail marks often appear reversed on human skin.
Finally Richie motioned me over and I looked at the screen.
HELLO, TV GAL. LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION-PASSION PRINCE.
I scanned the page. "Already have that. She talked with other men the same night. Earlier."
He punched some more buttons and tickled the machine's memory banks.
I CAN HEAL YOU!! I CAN HEAL YOUR WOUNDS AND SAVE YOU, LITTLE LADY. OH BOB, LIGHTEN UP. NOT BOB! NEVER BOB! ORAL ROBERT. I CAN LICK YOU INTO HEAVEN. BUT YOU GOTTA BELIEVE. I CAN LIFT A BRICK WITH MY TONGUE. GO SHIT A BRICK, BOB.
She had cut him off, checked who else was in the mating room, skillfully avoided a misspelled pornographic entreaty from Bush Whacker, then fielded another call.
IS YOUR ELECTRICITY ON, TV GAL? HELLO, BIGGUS, BEEN A WHILE. ARE YOU CABLE READY, TV GAL? 'CAUSE YOU WANNA PLUG ME IN, RIGHT? CMON, BIGGUS, NOT YOU TOO. OK. WHATS NEW? SAME OLD THING. BOSS DOESN'T TRUST ME TO DO BIG-TIME REPORTING. I COULD BLOW THIS TOWN OPEN IF THEY GAVE ME HALF A CHANCE. REALLY, TELL ME ABOUT IT. ANOTHER TIME. WHATS NEW WITH YOU? STILL CHASING BAD GUYS. OH, THATS WHAT YOU DO. YOU'RE A COP? YEP. HEY, I MEET A LOT OF COPS IN MY WORK. FUNNY, WE MIGHT EVEN KNOW EACH OTHER. WE COULD GET TO. A DRINK SOMETIME? YOU COULD COOK ME DINNER. I DON'T EVEN COOK ME DINNER, BIGGUS. SO HOW ABOUT I COME OVER NOW, BRING A BOTTLE OF SCOTCH? NOT NOW, B.D. IT'S INCONVENIENT. OH, GOT SOMEBODY OVER? SORRY. SO WHY ARE YOU WASTING MY TIME? 'NIGHT, BIGGUS.
"That what you're after?" Richie asked. He was in a hurry to get home and perfect a system for trading citrus-futures contracts in somebody else's account.
"That's it."
But it wasn't what I expected. Sure, Rodriguez was putting the make on her. But he sounded halfway reasonable. Even cloaked with anonymity, he was just a guy looking for a date, a little miffed not to get one. Not a drooling psychopath. But there was something new here, a man in her apartment when Rodriguez called. Not Nick, his alibi was ironclad. He was attending a prosecutors' conference in Orlando, returned the next morning. Who was it, some computer chatterbug who beat Biggus to the punch? And Nick thought she was only seeing him. I smiled at that, a pinprick in his ego when I would tell him.
"Hey, Richie, you know much about women?"
"Less than most, I suspect."
"Say it's around midnight, a woman's got one guy in the bedroom, why would she be calling around, trying to meet somebody else, somebody new?"
"Dunno, maybe the guy in the bedroom couldn't cut the mustard."
Maybe, but we still didn't have a suspect, and the question was nagging at me. Who was Marsha's lover that night, and why was she still on the make?
Richie pulled all the cables, and we replaced everything in the right locker. I repacked my file and declined Richie's kind suggestion that he break into the county traffic computer and fix all the lights green for our drive down Dixie Highway. Then we walked past the old sergeant, nodding our thanks, Richie sniffling and blowing his nose.
"Got a cold?" the sarge asked.
"Virus," Richie told him.
CHAPTER 29
The Bait
Pamela Maxson leaned on me and removed her shoes, sensible professional-lady blue pumps. I stood on one foot and hopped a step, taking off my battered Keds. High-tops. We rang the doorbell, said hello to my wacky secretary, and left our shoes on the front doorstep of her townhouse. Cindy's hair, once stained a rusty orange, was now dyed black and cut short with bangs. She wore a white silk kimono tied at the waist. She smiled placidly and waved us in. With mincing geisha steps, she led us past a collection of dried flowers in a green Oriental vase and into a small room set off with sliding paper walls. Silently, she motioned us toward pillows and a table barely eighteen inches off the floor. My right knee, the crosshatched one, groaned at the thought of it. My back, which hadn't gone into spasm in years, demanded an appointment at Hoshino Clinic in the Gables.
Cindy said, "I humbly offer my hospitality, lawyer-san."
"Still dating Morikawa," I observed.
"Tea?" she offered.
"No thanks, let's get to work."
"Care for a drink? Sake?"
"Cut it out, Cindy. Where's the computer?"
"Barbarian."
When Cindy had dated a bearded biker, her townhouse was furnished in Early Hell's Angels. When she took up with a weak-winged shortstop for the Miami Marlins, her place looked like Cooperstown. Now, her Tokyo-born beau had the Panasonic concession for the Caribbean and Central America, and Cindy was doing Teahouse of the August Moon.
"C'mon, Cindy. It's going to be a long night."
"If you're hungry, I can call a sushi place."
"Please! The computer."
She opened the paper doors and backed out of the room, bowing and shuffling. Oriental music tinkled from her CD player. We walked into the living room, a place hung with colorful silk paintings. The coffee table was covered with red lacquer boxes and bright ceramic pottery. Pam
was admiring black-and-white ink prints of little fishes and big flowers.
"Ito Jakuchu," Cindy said.
"Gesundheit," I responded politely.
"The artist, silly. That one's called Fish in a Lotus Pond. Do you sense the mix of humility and grandeur?"
"Cindy, we need to get-"
"Don't you find the brushwork almost Zen-like?"
"Cindy!"
"All right, already. Over here."
In the corner of the living room, under a painting of more fishes in more ponds, sat her computer. Japanese, of course.
"I signed up as Lady Chattery," Pam Maxson said, after Cindy turned on the juice. "Your friend Mrs. Blinderman was quite helpful."
"Uh-huh."
"Despite her apparent hostility the other day, I get the distinct impression she is attracted to you."
"Uh-huh."
"Jake?"
"Huh?"
"Why do you become uncommunicative when I mention her name?"
Cindy rescued me. "Say, Dr. M, you didn't have to sign up. You could have used my handle, Barely Legal."
My mouth dropped open. "Cindy, you?"
"Sure, boss. With Mori traveling so much, a girl gets lonely. I been online a couple months now."
"Cindy, don't you know there's a freak out there?"
"Don't I ever! I been single a long time."
"Jake, perhaps Cindy is right," Pamela said. "A new name may alert the killer. Perhaps using a familiar handle will be reassuring."
I thought about it. "Okay. We start with Barely Legal, maybe switch to Lady Chattery if we come up empty."
"Have fun, kids," Cindy said. "Gotta meet Dottie the Disco Queen and catch the last shuttle to Paradise Island. Twenty-four hours in the casino, hitting the slots, fending off Romeos. Sayonara. "
Pam sat, posture perfect, at the keyboard. I stretched out on the sofa, hefting my. 38-caliber revolver, courtesy of Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson. It's the air-weight bodyguard model with the checkered walnut stock and the blue steel cylinder, an ugly little five-shot gun with a two-inch barrel. At fourteen ounces, just about anybody can fire it, whether they ought to or not. Every assistant state attorney gets one, along with a laminated badge and an autographed, smiling photo of Nick Fox. The gun shouldn't scare me. It has the requisite safety devices and fits snugly in the hand, a solid feel. It should be reassuring. But it scares me.
I hate a knife.
I hate a needle.
And I hate a gun.
A gun doesn't do you any good unless you're willing to shoot. You can't aim at somebody and not mean it. You can't pull the trigger and take it back. I put the gun down and picked up a four-foot gaff I keep on the skiff. A mean hook at the end, but the whole thing is lightweight aluminum. You could bend it over somebody's head, he'd need a couple of aspirin, but could still shoot you if he had a gun of his own. Our visitor, if any there be, wouldn't have a gun. He'd have a sport coat and cordovan loafers and a trendy car. And a closet full of goblins that screamed in the dark.
I was sleepy from too much sun, and the muscles of my shoulders were bunching into angry little knots, telling the wise guy who used them that he hadn't read the owner's manual. There it was in boldface: after forty thousand miles, use an engine to push the boat.
Pam watched me handling the. 38 and said, "We could ask the police to stop by."
"There aren't any secrets in the department. Rodriguez would find out. Besides, I can take care of you."
She regarded me skeptically.
I waggled my gaff and showed her my tough-guy face. Pam Maxson shrugged and logged in. Barely Legal was on the air.
It must have been a slow night for the electronic buzz-and-whisper set. Clark Kent said he'd like to come over and change clothes; Katz Meow asked if being Barely Legal was kosher; Camera Man allowed as how he only wanted to watch. A couple of women made connections. Phyllis Ph. D. complained about the intelligence of the men you find on your monitors these days. Bi Di asked if maybe it wasn't time for a change in direction.
But no Biggus Dickus.
I had called the station; Alex Rodriguez wasn't on duty. He should be home, opening a six-pack, watching TV, growing bored. He should be warming up the beige box, rolling those microchip dice. Come on, Biggus, we're waiting.
I was tired and hungry. I checked the refrigerator. Typical bachelor-girl fare. Six cartons of yogurt, some old enough to earn interest at the CD rate. Two cans of diet Pepsi, one opened, two sips missing. A forlorn tomato with no other veggies for company. A can of tuna, a couple eggs. A take-out carton from Joe's Stone Crab that emitted an astonishing odor. No wonder, Joe's closed for the season in April. It was nearly Labor Day. The freezer was packed. Six pints of Ben amp; Jerry's, all different flavors. I tried Chunky Monkey.
Back in the living room, Barely Legal was logging out and Lady Chattery was logging in. Muff Diver popped up and asked if the new lady omitted a letter from her name.
No, it's a pun, she responded.
A what? he asked.
Pam pushed a few more buttons and joined Compu-Mate's party line. Rita Cane was verbally abusing Senor Slave, who seemed to like it. Another code and she was in the mating room, singles meeting new talent. Charlie Horse said hello and complained about his rheumatism. In the Dungeon, Bum Swatter was looking for passive women. I hoped he didn't run into Rita Cane; there'd be hell to pay.
I left Pam there, then lay down on the sofa, picked up the Journal, and got my daily dose of Miami madness. The usual collection of crime stories. Another policeman shot another drug suspect, another three women had their car windows smashed with bricks and their purses grabbed at downtown traffic lights, and another cache of automatic weapons was seized at the airport. Standard local fare.
Something else, too. A story about how dry we are, and are going to be. The Biscayne Aquifer keeps shrinking and we keep chugging the water in great wasteful portions. We are overpopulated and over pampered. We water our lawns while thunderstorms rage. In one plush suburb overflowing with hibiscus and impatiens, each household uses an astonishing six hundred gallons of water every day. So there is a push on to replace thirsty palms and St. Augustine grass with ferns and satin leaf trees, bougainvillea, and other shrubs that thrive without irrigation.
As the water table drops, the garbage piles up. Mount Trashmore overflows. Our old landfills leak poisonous crud into the porous sand-and-limestone aquifer. Instead of recycling, we use and discard. Disposable diapers take five hundred years to decompose, many times the rate of our greatest books. Our shorelines are clogged with plastics and Styrofoam. Our fish and turtles and birds become snared in six-pack rings or strangled in illegal nets. We dump thousands of old cars and used tires in places where sludge leaks into the groundwater. One gallon of oil contaminates a million gallons of water.
This very day, a freighter slammed into a coral reef off Key Largo not far from where Charlie and I chased bonefish. It takes six thousand years to build a reef, from the Pleistocene limestone and calcareous mud to the skeletal sand and the miraculous living coral, swaying brightly in the tidal flow. It takes seconds for the steel bow of a Panamanian rustbucket to destroy it.
We are a vain, greedy, and foolish people. We squander and spoil, befoul and defile. We take for granted the beauties and bounties of nature, but in the end nature will out. We will dry up or smoke out or choke on our own waste. In the end we will pay the ultimate price.
I put the paper down and closed my eyes. Cops say surveillance is the worst. They use the wartime cliche, hours of boredom followed by moments of terror. At this moment the sofa was rocking gently, just as the skiff had done. Lulling me to sleep with the soft tap, tap, tapping of fingers on electronic keys. Through faraway clouds I called to Pam but could not see her. I heard Nick Fox's voice. What was he saying? Suddenly I was cold. And wet. I was wearing fatigues and my boots were squishing in the mud outside a village they call Dak Sut. My back was bent under the weight of my gear, my stomach knotted with dread. From somewh
ere I heard the echo of small weapons. I dived into the mud. I heard Nick Fox again. "Evan," he called. "Evan, where are you?"
I awoke to Pam's voice. "Jake, you might want to look at this."
She was calm, but underneath the flat tones I heard the tension. I imagined a nurse calling the surgeon to the gurney to inspect an appalling wound.
I shook myself up and wobbled to her desk. The monitor was humming.
AND YOU, LADY CHATTERY, WHAT DO YOU SEEK? A GARDENER, STRONG OF LIMB, PLAIN OF TALK, BRIMMING WITH PASSION. KNOW ANYONE WHO FITS THE BILL? THE PRINCE OF PASSION, AT YOUR SERVICE.
Professor Gerald Prince or some impostor. I didn't know which.
Pam wrinkled her forehead and started typing.
A PRINCE IS EVERY GIRL'S FANTASY. AND YOU, MY LADY. IF YOU FOUND YOUR PRINCE, WOULD YOU KNOW IT, OR WOULD APPEARANCES PUT YOU OFF?
Pam paused and turned to me. "What's he saying?"
"Ask him if he's a prince or the phantom of the opera."
WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE, PRINCE? NEVER MIND ME. WHO ARE YOU, LADY C? WHAT ARE YOU? WHAT DO YOU THINK?
The screen stayed blank. Where'd you go, Prince? A minute passed. Maybe he went to the john. But then it started and I tried to picture him, huddled in some room, tapping out the words. I didn't have a picture.
TILL BACK I FELL, AND FROM MINE ARMS SHE ROSE GLOWING ALL OVER NOBLE SHAME; AND ALL HER FALSER SELF SLIPT FROM HER LIKE A ROBE, AND LEFT HER WOMAN…
Pam looked at me, but I just shrugged. Again she typed.
THAT'S LOVELY, PRINCE. WHAT'S IT FROM?
The answer flickered white against the black background.
DO YOU KNOW YOUR TENNYSON?
No, I thought, but I'm learning.
I skimmed back over the words. My mind was racing and nothing made sense. Of course, it could be coincidence. The Tennyson messages left at the Rosedahl and Fox murder scenes, and now this. Sure, Lassiter, sure. Most horny guys with computers quote Tennyson every chance they get. But this stuff, Victorian verse, might as well have been Greek to me. I started to ask Pam something, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand. She had once deciphered kidnappers' notes and was back in her element-dissecting the words of a psychopath.
