Dirty Harriet

by Miriam Auerbach

  My office is located on the seedy side of Boca. Yeah, there is one. Of course you know that everything glitzy in life is just a facade. Boca’s backside, or at least one of them, is along its southwestern edge, on Highway 441, technically outside the city limits. This is strip mall city, with rutted parking lots and dusty barren roadways in place of the manicured hedges and fairways to the east. ScamBusters is in one of these strips, wedged between Tony’s Tattoos and Carl’s Checks ‘R’ Us check-cashing store.

  Actually, the location is a business advantage. Think about it. My typical clients from east Boca wouldn’t be caught dead walking into ScamBusters, since that would be tantamount to a public announcement that they’d been conned. So by driving a couple miles out of town, they don’t have to worry about being seen and having their country club know their business the next day. Here, all they have to worry about is getting their Mercedes or their Beemers carjacked.

  I put on my leather jacket, chaps, gloves, and helmet and settled onto the seat of my Hog. I turned the ignition key and pushed the starter button, and the engine roared to life. I pushed my way back out of the parking space, then opened up the throttle and took off. As I headed west on Glades Road and left the traffic behind, everything faded out of my consciousness except the familiar four-stroke rhythm of the V-twin engine. You know that sound—the one you get only from a Harley. But maybe you don’t know the feel. Let me put it this way: it’s a five-hundred-pound vibrator between your legs. And people wonder why a woman would ride a bike.

  My airboat was docked at the road’s end. At that point, civilization stopped and the wilderness took over. It was the place where solid ground gave way to uncertainty. The swamp—neither earth nor water—that murky no-man’s-land that was my home.

  I pulled down the loading ramp and rolled the Hog onto the boat. It’s one of those big mothers originally used for toting tourists that’s been specially adapted to carry my bike. I sat in the boat’s driver’s seat. I pushed my foam earplugs into my ears, then donned my soundproofing earmuffs over those. This sucker is loud. I started the engine, and the huge rear-mounted fan began its frenzied spin. I shifted into gear, and the boat took off, the sawgrass seemingly parting before me as I moved ahead.

  Two miles due northwest, I reached my cabin. I pulled the boat up to the porch, disembarked, and tied the craft to the hitching post. My own Wild West. I walked into the combination living room/dining room/kitchen and pulled my boots off. At the kitchen cabinet, I took out my lead crystal glass—one of the few remnants of my past life, so I guess I’m not fully recovered yet—and poured myself a shot of Hennessy. I went out to the porch to sit in my rocking chair and watch the sun set. I spotted Lana, the gator, lurking a few yards off to my left.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home,” I called. “How was your day?”

  She didn’t respond.

  I pulled out the case summary the contessa had given me to “think over.”

  There wasn’t a whole lot there. The body of a female thought to be in her early twenties had been found in a tomato field outside of Boca on February 19. Exactly one year ago. The victim had been killed by strangulation. Bruise marks around her throat indicated something had been wrapped around it and tightened. She had been dead about four days when her body was discovered.

  The crime scene investigation turned up no murder weapon at the scene. Because of heavy rain in the intervening days between the death and the discovery of the body, the crime scene did not provide any further reliable forensic evidence. It was not known whether the death had occurred at the scene or whether the victim had been killed elsewhere and then dumped in the tomato field.

  The summary included several crime scene photos. The victim’s body lay facedown in the mud, twisted and crumpled. Her clothes were a simple brown skirt and tan sweater, both soaked through and mud-streaked. But it was her shoes that really got to me. They, too, were mud-covered, but bright white patches of canvas shone through. They looked brand-new. The idea that this woman had just bought a shining new pair of sneakers, probably in hopes of a brighter future, only to wear them once or twice before being brutally murdered, sent a stab of pain right through my gut.

  There were also some autopsy photos. In these, the victim lay on a cold steel slab. Her pale face seemed remarkably untouched and peaceful in contrast with the trauma marks around her neck. Again, I felt a wave of sickness at the clearly vicious attack on such a young, innocent-looking woman.

  I resumed reading. The tomato fields were home to many Guatemalan immigrants who worked on the local farms. The police had taken one of the autopsy photos of the victim around to the homes where the immigrants lived. The victim was identified as Gladys Gutierrez by a friend, Eulalia Lopez. Working with a Spanish interpreter, the police questioned Eulalia, but she was unable to provide any solid leads on the murder.

  The police interviewed the farm workers’ crew boss, Jake Lamont, who stated that Gladys had worked in the fields and lived in the company housing until about two weeks previously. Then she had disappeared, and he didn’t know where she had gone. The police talked with a few of the other residents, but they said they didn’t know much about Gladys.

  According to the summary, after the story of Gladys’s murder appeared in the local paper with a request that anyone with information contact the police, the contessa had called them. She informed them that Gladys had been a client at the Central American Rescue Mission and that the mission had placed Gladys in a live-in housekeeping job, which is why she had left the tomato fields. The contessa provided the police with what little she knew about Gladys, but she had no information that could help solve the case.

  The police then interviewed Gladys’s new employer, Tricia Weinstein. She stated that Gladys had disappeared from the home on February 15. Tricia had not reported Gladys as a missing person because she assumed that Gladys had simply bailed out on the job.

  The summary stopped at that point. Evidently, there were no further developments.

  Just as I finished reading the file, the last reddish-gold arc of the sun disappeared on the horizon.

  Lana slithered off a rock into the water.

  “So what do you think?” I asked her. “Should I take the case?”

  She popped her head above water level and looked at me. Did I detect a gleam in her eye? Nah. Anyway, I knew that she knew it was already a foregone conclusion. The contessa, that wily fox, had known exactly how to pique my interest, how to reach into the depths of my soul. Whereas most people had an inner child there, I had something else: an inner vigilante. And it was ready to be set free.

  Chapter 2

  AT NINE the next morning, I pulled up in front of the squat, concrete-block building that housed the Central American Rescue Mission. The contessa’s Rolls was already parked outside. I rang the bell and was buzzed in.

  I was greeted by Coco snarling at my feet. The bitch obviously was not aware that I was highly trained in Krav Maga kicking skills, otherwise she might have reconsidered. The contessa, though, seemed to read my thoughts, as usual, and commanded the dog to cease. Coco put her tail between her legs and scampered over to the contessa.

  I could see the contessa was about to slap me with yet another reprimand about my new lack of social graces, so I cut her off. “Let’s get to business. I have a contract here for you to sign.”

  “Very good,” she said, and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. She sat down and read over the terms of my services.

  “Excellent,” she said as she extracted a robin’s-egg-blue Tiffany pen and signed the bottom line with a flourish.

  I pulled out my leaky Harley pen with the flaming top that lit up in flashing red and gold, signed, and handed her a copy.

  “All right, now let me show you around,” she said. “I think it would be useful for you to know a little more about the Rescue Mission and get acquainted with the people he
re.” She waved around the room we were in. “This is our reception area.”

  The white plaster walls were covered with large, bright weavings depicting Central American village life.

  “Our girls did those,” the contessa said with pride. “We have a weekly women’s group where they get together to make these and other traditional handicrafts, like woven handbags. We have a booth over at the flea market where we sell them.”

  I did a double-take. The Contessa von Phul in a flea market?

  “Should I call you Contessa von Flea?” I asked, unable to control myself.

  She pretended not to hear me. She gestured to a small weaving hanging on the wall. It showed a mother playing with an exuberant baby.

  “Gladys did that one,” she said.

  I felt that pang again. Apparently Gladys had a fondness for children. I couldn’t say the same about myself but did admire the trait in others. The weaving was meticulous, perfect to the finest detail. Not a thread was out of place. Clearly, Gladys took pride in her work.

  I followed the contessa out of the reception area into a hallway as she chattered on about the mission.

  “Of course, none of our boys and girls are here now, since they’re working in the fields,” the contessa said. “All our programs are in the evenings.” She led me into a large room with chalkboard and desks. “This is our classroom. We have ESL teachers coming in every night of the week to teach English, all levels.”

  We walked down the hallway, which had several rooms off each side. “These are offices and meeting rooms. We have a part-time attorney on staff who helps the boys and girls with immigration. It’s a real battle, but we’ve been able to get legal status for some of our clients. In fact, Gladys was one of them. Our lawyer got asylum for her just about a month before she was killed. Such a tragedy.”

  We continued down the hall. “We also have a part-time social worker. She does referrals and job placement. Often, our clients can get work permits while their immigration cases are pending, and then we can place them in jobs like housekeeping. It’s a step up from working in the fields. That’s what Gladys did. She was so motivated, the poor child.”

  We had reached the end of the hall. “And now I’d like to introduce you to our executive director.”

  She opened a door and I was hit with a blast of incense-filled air. Then I found myself face-to-face with . . . Frida Kahlo.

  Okay, so it wasn’t really the late Mexican painter, it was just her double. She was a beautiful unibrowed woman in her fifties. Her dark brown eyes set off a broad nose and mouth. Her gray-streaked black hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate braid intertwined with an emerald-green ribbon. Emerald-and-gold chandelier earrings hung to her shoulders. Her white peasant blouse was embroidered at the neckline and sleeves, and her multicolored, woven skirt hung gracefully to the floor.

  “Harriet Horowitz, I’d like you to meet Dr. Guadalupe Lourdes Fatima Domingo,” the contessa said.

  I did another double-take and glanced around the room. I’m half Catholic—the other half is Jewish—and I half expected the Virgin Mary to put in an appearance. She didn’t.

  “I’ll be taking my leave now,” the contessa said. “I have full faith in your ability to pursue this investigation. You will, of course, keep me posted.”

  “You betcha,” I replied.

  “Goodbye, then, both of you,” she said, and went out the door.

  Frida—I mean, the doctor—gave me a smile. “Just call me Lupe,” she said. “How can I be of help?”

  Taking out my flaming pen and my notepad, I said, “Why don’t you begin by telling me all you know about Gladys?”

  She reached into her desk, pulled out a photo, and handed it to me.

  “This is Gladys,” she said softly.

  I looked at the picture. It was a jarring contrast from the autopsy photos I’d looked at last night. The picture had been taken without Gladys’s awareness. She was among a small group of women in conversation. Her dark eyes looked animated, her black hair shone brightly, and her dark red lips were open in a warm smile.

  “She came to Florida about five years ago,” Lupe said. “She was like many of the others from Guatemala. They come in small groups. They walk across the mountains into Mexico, then they slowly make their way across all of Mexico up to the Arizona border, where a coyote takes them over the border.”

  “A coyote?” I asked. “I didn’t know they were domesticated.”

  “Not the animal,” she said. “It’s the common term for a smuggler.”

  “Oh,” I said. Just stamp dummy across my forehead.

  “They’re the scum of the earth,” she continued. “They cram these poor people into tractor trailers like cattle and sneak them across the border. Then they keep them loaded in there, waiting for other drivers to pick them up and bring them here to Florida. Invariably, a few die somewhere along the way. Imagine the heat in those trailers out there in the desert.”

  I had read about this kind of thing but admit I’d never given it a whole lot of thought. Well, remember that I’ve only been in recovery a few years. I was a Boca Babe most of my adult life, living in denial of the rest of the world. Yeah, I know, lame-ass excuse.

  “Why do they take the risk?” I asked.

  “These are indigenous people—Mayan Indians. The governments in that region have always oppressed their basic human rights. Since the seventies, there have been uprisings from the indigenous people. You’ve heard of the Zapatistas, the Chiapas?”

  I didn’t want to betray my ex-Babe ignorance, so I just nodded. I don’t think she was fooled.

  “Basically, you have bloody civil strife that has dragged on for decades. So when someone comes along promising jobs in the U.S., it’s a ticket to paradise. Like many of them, Gladys wanted to earn money to send back to her family. She had three younger siblings back home. So she got here and went to work in the fields. Some of the women there got her involved with our agency. As the contessa probably already told you, Gladys took English classes here, and Judy, our lawyer, had just gotten her legal asylum. Then just a couple weeks after that, a woman called our employment service looking for a live-in housekeeper, and Gladys was a perfect match. As you can imagine, she was so excited to get out of the fields.”

  As Lupe spoke, her gaze wandered off into some unseen distance. Then she refocused on me. “And that’s all I can tell you about her. I’m sorry, I know it’s not much.”

  “Do you know who her friends were? Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “She was close with one of our other clients, Eulalia. And she did have a boyfriend, Miguel.”

  “Well, those are two good places to start. How could I get in touch with them?”

  “I’ll be glad to take you to meet them up at the fields. Besides, you’ll need an interpreter. They don’t speak English very well.”

  “That’d be great,” I said. “Also it’ll give me a chance to see the scene of the crime.”

  “Okay,” Lupe said. “How about I take you up there this afternoon? I’m just finishing writing a grant that I need to get out this morning. And I need to imbue it with good energy. So is one o’clock okay?”

  “Great. I’ll see myself out.” As I stepped out the door, I saw her light another incense stick. I paused just outside the doorway, out of sight. Okay, so I was eavesdropping. It’s an occupational hazard.

  I heard an intonation emanate from within: “Command this fragrance strong and fast, to send out the spell that I cast.”

  Oh-kay. Weeeird.

  I walked back down the hall and out the front door, got on my Hog, and roared away, reflecting on the case. After seeing the photos of Gladys alive and seeing what she left behind, she was real to me. A woman with a family, with hope, with so much potential and talent. Despite what the contessa had said about a p
art of me being a part of Gladys, I still wasn’t sure what we had in common. An ex-Boca Babe and a Mayan illegal immigrant hardly inhabit the same worlds. But, by some twist of fate, our paths had intersected. Her journey down this road had ended. But mine was just beginning.

  Chapter 3

  I RODE TO my office where I worked on another case for a couple hours—a scam involving a matchmaker who had failed to deliver the goods—then my stomach told me it was time for lunch. My encounter with Frida—I mean, Lupe—put my stomach in mind of Mexican food. The best l could do was Taco-to-Go. I chowed down on a gordita, bean burrito, beef taco, and a Coke—damn, but a Corona would have hit the spot—then I rode back over to the Rescue Mission.

  Lupe was ready to go, and we got in her pickup truck. The cab, like her office, smelled of incense. A quartz crystal hung from the rearview mirror.

  As we drove west to the tomato fields, I asked her how she’d gotten into her line of work.

  “I grew up over in Immokalee,” she said, referring to the small southwest Florida town that is the state’s agricultural capital. “My parents were migrant farm workers from Mexico. We spent nine months of the year here in Florida, picking tomatoes, oranges, strawberries. In the summers, we went up to Maine for the cranberry harvest. Most migrant kids like me don’t have a chance. Nobody outside their families gives a shit about them. They end up living the same life as their parents—‘perpetuating the cycle of poverty,’ as the politicos say—like it’s all the kids’ fault, right?”

  I figured it was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t say anything and she went on.

  “I was lucky. There was a young Anglo guy who came down from up north to organize the farm workers. He’d worked with César Chávez out in California. This was the late sixties, so he was one of those revolutionaries who was going to change the world. I’m sure he’s a stockbroker by now. Anyway, he put the idea in my head that I could actually go to college. So eventually I did—went to UF up in Gainesville, worked my way through. Of course, leaving my family was pretty tough, but they were behind me a hundred percent.