Boca Undercover

by Miriam Auerbach

  “But I wasn’t even planning to be here. I checked in on the spur of the moment. Why would I be carrying a urine sample with me?”

  “I’m sorry, but rules are rules. We have to treat everyone the same. Now, please.” She extended a hand toward the bathroom door, as if welcoming me to enter.

  Oh my god. Was this investigation really worth such humiliation?

  Hell, yes! Something inside me said. My Inner Vigilante. You’ve got to get justice for that poor dead boy.

  I sighed. Then I remembered that I’d been through worse, once subjecting myself to a gynecological pelvic exam in order to catch a killer. I guess on the scale of personal invasiveness, peeing in front of someone wasn’t that bad. And people think being a PI is glamorous.

  We went into the room’s private bath. Given the décor of the rest of the place, I was surprised the toilet wasn’t a gold-plated throne. Just plain old porcelain. I sat down and did the deed.

  When we emerged back into the bedroom, Mercy said, “Okay, now normally Dr. Stillwater would come in and do a history and physical on you, but I’m afraid she’s indisposed right now.”

  Yeah, I’d guess so, what with a murder victim, a hysterical mother, and a killer on the loose.

  “So let me find out who’s available to meet with you—our psychiatrist, psychologist, or chaplain. If you’d like, you can wait on our back patio. It’s very peaceful out there.”

  That seemed better than sitting in the sumptuous but stifling room. I followed Mercy to another of the arched doorways off the circular common area. This door, rather than leading into another room, as I had assumed, opened onto a granite-paved patio looking out onto a small pond. Lawn furniture and umbrellas were strategically scattered about. No one was out there. I wondered if I was the only patient in the detox unit.

  Beyond the pond was an eight-foot concrete wall. So, no way out this way, either. Although Mercy had said I was free to leave, I started to wonder whether I—and all the other patients—were actually trapped in this place.

  “Just relax, and I’ll be back shortly,” Mercy said.

  Relax. Right. I paced around like a caged animal. Were the zookeepers watching? I looked up at the corner of the building. Yup. A security camera was mounted there. Guess they didn’t want anyone drowning themselves—or someone else—in the pond.

  I took some deep breaths and pondered the situation. Okay, so maybe I was trapped. Temporarily. No one could hold Dirty Harriet captive for long. In the meantime, I needed a plan of action for finding the killer. I sat on a plush, padded lounge chair to think.

  Any investigation should always begin with the victim. I needed to find out about Demarcus and the other alleged dead teens. First, I needed to verify that there had in fact been other suspicious deaths, that they weren’t just rumors. If there were other victims, who were they? Where were they from? Why were they there? How had they—other than Demarcus—died? Once I knew these things, I could look for patterns pointing to motives or suspects.

  I could start by accessing the medical records on one of the facility’s computers. There was a computer at the nurses’ station in the suite, but I wouldn’t have enough time to use that one. The station would always be staffed, except perhaps for brief moments when the nurse was with another patient or taking a bathroom break. I could easily be caught out in the open like that. Also, I’d have to do this at night, when fewer staff were around. My best shot at accessing a computer would mean getting through the locked door of the detox unit.

  As I racked my brain trying to figure out how to do that, I saw a ripple in the pond before me. Then another.

  Wait a minute. No way. It couldn’t be.

  But it was—a little alligator snout. I’d recognize one anywhere. But it couldn’t be Lana. First of all, how the hell would she get all the way into town from the Glades? She was enterprising, but even so, I didn’t think she had a mental map of all the canals, lakes, and ponds between here and there. Besides, this snout was considerably smaller than hers. This was like an adolescent alligator.

  Hey! it said.

  What? Did that thing just speak to me? I looked around. Guess it wasn’t speaking to anyone else.

  I’m Sylvester. Lana’s great-nephew, it—or he, I guess—said.

  Okay, I knew this conversation was all in my head. Maybe I should discuss this with the psychiatrist they were sending to evaluate me. Nah. Nope. Not happening. They’d lock me up for sure.

  So you need to get through a locked door, Sylvester said.

  Uh, yeah, I said. Got any ideas?

  Hell yes, girl. You have friends. In places.

  I let out a sigh of exasperation. Apparently, cryptic communication ran in Lana’s family. Why couldn’t they just come right out and say what they meant?

  Friends in places. I ran through my mental list.

  There was Chuck. In the Greasy Rider Bike Shop. He had a bunch of keys—on his belt loop. Not the kind of key I needed here.

  There was Lior. In Israel—no help there.

  The Contessa. In her Boca palazzo. Her influence could open a lot of doors—metaphorical ones, not actual ones.

  Leonard. Mom’s live-in. Ex-CIA . . . he probably had a way . . .

  Wait—of course—Enrique! As chief of security at the Boca Beach Hilton, he had a master magnetic key card that could override the code on any room in the hotel—or any other magnetic lock.

  Okay, cool, I told Sylvester. But how will I get a message to Enrique? There is a phone in my room . . .

  It could be bugged, Sylvester said.

  I know that, I said with some irritation. Just like Lana, Sylvester also had a way of overstating the obvious. If I had my glass of Hennessy in hand, which I usually did when Lana showed up, it would take the edge off the interaction.

  I rose from the lounge. Well, nice to meet you, and thanks for your help, Sylvester, I said.

  Call me Slick, he said, and floated off with a flip of his teen-sized tail.

  I went inside and found Mercy at the nurses’ station. “I’m still waiting to get a call back about who can see you,” she said.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “In the meantime, I’d like to call a friend, but I don’t have his number since you guys took my cell phone. Would you have a phone book I could borrow?”

  “Sure.” She looked under the counter. “That’s funny. It’s not here.” She rummaged around. “I don’t know what happened to it. Well, I can look up the number for you on the web.”

  “Okay. It’s the Boca Beach Hilton.”

  She Googled it and jotted down the number for me.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said, and went back into my room, closing the door behind me.

  I called the Hilton and asked for Enrique.

  “Hold please,” the receptionist said. It was a command, not a request.

  I was transported into the Holding Zone—the Twilight Zone of the twenty-first century. That place you can never escape from, where you’re at the mercy of those at the other end. It’s probably where Rod Serling resides in the afterlife, chain-smoking as he chuckles over the fate of us mortals helplessly hanging on the line.

  A series of beeps was periodically interrupted by a series of come-ons from a seductive female voice. “Thank you for calling the Boca Beach Hilton. Did you know you can make your reservation online and save time and money? Just go to bocabeach.com.” Beep. Beep. Beep. “Take advantage of our stay-two-nights-get-one-free offer. Just go to . . .” Beep. Beep. Beep. “How about a Ladies Day at our world-class spa? Get a massage and facial for just $99.99. Go to . . .” Beep. Beep. Beep.

  My nails were digging into the palms of my hands, and I was about to throw the receiver at the wall when Enrique finally came on.

  “Hailey?” he said. He must have seen the caller ID from The Oasis and appar
ently had already been briefed by Leonard on my undercover identity. As I might have expected from the super-efficient super-spy. He had my back.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I said. “Listen, I could really use a friend right now.” I let out a sob for the benefit of anyone who might be listening in as I tried to think of a way to phrase my request. I knew Enrique could figure out what I needed if I just used the right code words.

  “I’m feeling trapped in this place,” I said. “I need help to unlock the demons that are driving me to drink,” I said. “It’s like they’ve got a magnetic pull on me. I think you might hold a key to solving this problem.”

  “I hear you,” Enrique said. “I can be there in a half hour.”

  “Oh, thank you, sweetheart.” I didn’t typically use terms of endearment with him—or anyone, for that matter—but figured it would further my ruse if anyone was listening in.

  I went back out to talk to Mercy at the nurses’ station.

  “My friend would like to visit,” I said. “Can you please put him on the visitors list at the guard gate?

  “No problem.”

  “Thanks.”

  As soon as I returned to my room, I heard yelling outside the window. I walked over to look out and saw Hernandez and Fernandez dragging a handcuffed man toward a cop car. I recognized him as the Haitian gardener I had seen spraying the lawn with green liquid when I’d first arrived.

  Through the glass windowpane I could hear his muffled shouts in French. “Je n’ai rien fait! Je n’ai rien fait!” I knew just enough of the language to translate: “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything!”

  Chapter 6

  THROUGH THE window of my room, I watched Hernandez and Fernandez put the gardener in the back of a patrol car and drive off. For a moment I wanted to bang on the window and yell, “Stop!” But what purpose would that serve?

  Certainly the gardener could have done it. He had the means—the hedge clippers—and the opportunity—he and the victim, Demarcus, both had access to the maze. As for motive, who knew? Had the gardener become enraged at Demarcus for stepping on his grass? Did the two of them have some prior relationship?

  Maybe with the gardener’s arrest, the crime was solved and I could check out. Of course, the police were never wrong. Yeah, right. Besides, what about the other two teens who had allegedly died before Demarcus? Had the police even looked into those rumors?

  Since I was already on the inside, I might as well continue with my own investigation. If it turned out the gardener really was the killer of three victims, I wouldn’t have lost much. Except a couple days of freedom. No Hog riding, no log cabin. Big sacrifices—but ones my Inner Vigilante was willing to make in pursuit of justice.

  As I was contemplating, a knock came at the door. Upon opening it, I don’t know who was more shocked, me or the woman who stood there. She was in her fifties, wearing a white embroidered peasant blouse and ruffled cotton skirt that brushed her ankles. Her salt and pepper hair was swept up on her head in elaborate braids. Large, intricate silver earrings and a matching necklace framed her face.

  It was my old friend, Guadalupe Lourdes Fatima Domingo. Lupe for short. She was a Mexican-American anthropologist whom I had met on my first homicide case.

  “Harr—” she started to say.

  I grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, shutting the door behind her. I leaned in close, catching a scent of woodsy perfume. “We can’t talk in here,” I whispered in her ear. “Can we go outside?”

  She leaned back and held me at arm’s length, looking at me with her brows furrowed. “Yes, let’s go,” she said after a moment.

  I guess she’d decided that I wasn’t wacko. Or that if I was, she’d play along.

  We stepped outside the room. Mercy, the nurse, sat at her station.

  “Ms. . . . uh, Holloway and I are going to take a walk outside,” Lupe told her.

  “Sure,” Mercy said. She rose, walked to the door of the suite, and unlocked it.

  Lupe and I made our way down the hall, through the lobby, where Tiffani, the receptionist, smiled at us, and out onto the front lawn. I felt an immediate sense of relief at being sprung.

  We sat on a wrought-iron bench overlooking a bed of bright pink and white flowers. The gardener’s abandoned hose snaked through the grass.

  We turned to each other. “What are you doing here?” we both asked simultaneously.

  “I’m the chaplain,” she said.

  “But . . . but you’re a witch,” I said. I had witnessed some of her practices, like meditating in the moonlight, and she had told me a little about her beliefs involving communion with nature.

  “Bruja,” she said.

  “I know there’s a big brouhaha going on here,” I said. “But—”

  “Not brouhaha. Bruja. A spiritual guide.”

  “Oh. But don’t you have to be . . . I don’t know, some mainstream religion to be a chaplain?”

  “A chaplain can be of any faith and serve anyone—even nonbelievers. Here at The Oasis, the spiritual quest is all about recognizing one’s Higher Power—however one may interpret that.”

  A large blue heron swooped down from the sky, landed at our feet, and proceeded to stare at us. If that was supposed to be some sign from a Higher Power, I had no idea what it meant. Lupe’s presence still had me befuddled.

  “You already have a job.” I said. She was the executive director of a local rescue mission.

  “This is a part-time consulting position. It gives me the opportunity to be of greater service to those in need.”

  “But you’re a champion of the poor. What are you doing here with people who live in the lap of luxury?”

  “Oh, Harriet,” she said, gazing at the heron, who was now pecking at the grass. “You know the answer to that yourself. Those who are tied to material possessions are spiritually impoverished.”

  Of course she was right. I did know that very well.

  “I guess I’m just shocked to see you here,” I said.

  “Likewise. I’m asked to conduct a spiritual assessment with a new client, Hailey Holloway, and instead I get Dirty Harriet.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone, Lupe. I’m here undercover.”

  “I figured as much. Why?’’ she demanded.

  I knew I could trust her. Besides, she could prove a big help to the investigation. So I told her about Gitta and how I’d ended up checking into The Oasis.

  “I heard about Demarcus when I arrived,” Lupe said. “It’s tragic. Do you think there’s a connection between his murder and the other two deaths?”

  So the rumors were true—there had been two other deaths.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I need a couple days to investigate.”

  Lupe let out a breath. “Your being here really puts me in an ethical bind. If more children are in danger, I obviously want you to figure out what’s going on. And I know you can. Will. On the other hand, I’m obligated to report your true identity to my colleagues.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Doesn’t client confidentiality apply?”

  “Only when it comes to revealing information to people outside the organization. But within the facility, we operate as a team. We have to share information among ourselves in order to provide coordinated treatment. If I deceive my colleagues, it will affect the entire team dynamics and patient care.”

  “But one of them—or more—could be killers,” I said.

  “Right,” she sighed and was silent for a moment. Then she gripped my hand, intertwining our fingers. “I’m with you, sister,” she said.

  I squeezed her hand back.

  “I’ll tell the team that you declined chaplaincy services,” Lupe said. “Which would be true. At least that will mitigate my ethical transgression somewhat.”

  “Awesome. Th
anks, Lupe.”

  “But before I go, I do have to complete the spiritual assessment form. For the sake of appearances.”

  Damn. The prospect of having my spirit searched made me squirm. I wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of probing questions. “Okay,” I said with resignation.

  Lupe pulled a sheet of paper and pen out of her large, multicolored woven bag.

  “Harriet . . . I mean, Hailey, tell me what kind of religious upbringing you had, if any.”

  As usual, I decided to follow my policy of sticking closely to the truth to minimize the possibility of being outed later by some inconsistency. “I’m a Jewaholic.”

  She blinked. “You’re addicted to Jews?”

  “No.” At least I didn’t think I was addicted to Lior. Was I? It was true that I was craving his return—was that a sign of a problem? Whatever. This was not the time to worry about that.

  “Jewaholic,” I repeated. “Half Jewish, half Catholic.”

  “I see,” Lupe said.

  “Mom is a cafeteria Catholic, and Dad was a Jewish atheist.”

  “What do you mean he ‘was’?”

  “He died when I was little. He was a traveling salesman, and one night up near Frostproof, Florida, he crashed headfirst into a Texas longhorn that had wandered onto the road. I guess it’s good that he was an atheist, because the mix of meat and dairy that resulted wouldn’t have been kosher.”

  Lupe looked at me for a moment before proceeding. “And what does the term ‘cafeteria Catholic’ mean to you?”

  “Mom just picks and chooses what she wants from the catechism menu. For example, she believes in the sacrament of marriage. Really believes. I mean, she did it four more times after dad died. And is about to again, I think. On the other hand, she obviously has no problem with divorce.”

  “And your stepfathers? What kind of religious influence did they have on you?”

  “They were all Jewish, too.” If I wasn’t addicted to Jews, Mom certainly was. Was there a treatment program for that?

  “So what was it like growing up in an interfaith household?” Lupe asked.