Hmmm. So the gardener had come upon Demarcus before Gitta and I had.
“Why didn’t he call for help?” the reporter asked. Exactly my question.
“My husband afraid of police. In Haiti, police are torturers. He thought police would not believe him, so he try to run away.” The woman broke down in sobs.
And of course, the man had been right—the police didn’t believe him. But I wasn’t convinced that the gardener was the killer. Hanging the blame on a frightened, poor-English-speaking suspect seemed awfully tidy and convenient. And the police weren’t disclosing a motive—perhaps because they didn’t have one? There was much more going on with the teens at The Oasis—and my Inner Vigilante wouldn’t rest until I found out what it was.
I shifted on the ottoman.
“And now,” the newscaster said, “a report from the statewide school principals’ convention that is meeting this week at the Boca Beach Hilton.”
Oh yeah, Enrique had said something about that.
“Our own River Sims is on the scene. River?”
The image changed to a male reporter standing in the hallway of the Hilton. People attired in suits, ties, and heels bustled past.
“Thank you, Lake,” River said.
Jeez, who was next—Ocean?
River inclined his head to the camera. His hair didn’t move. “Lake, the hot topic of discussion here this week is high-stakes standardized achievement testing. This is an acutely controversial subject among principals, teachers, parents, administrators, and legislators. The State Department of Education grades schools on their performance based largely on their students’ test scores. Those schools that do well are rewarded with acclaim and monetary resources. Attendees here at this conference are asking: Are the tests biased? Do they place too much pressure on kids? And do they force teachers to ‘teach to the test’ rather than developing students’ critical thinking and creative skills? Here to give us some perspective on this divisive issue is the president of the Florida Principals Association, Ocean Waverly.”
But of course.
Where was Singh already? I was bored. Not having kids myself, and having successfully escaped high school, this was not a subject that held my interest. However, my alternatives—the various Millionaire shows—were no more appealing.
A blonde wearing a sea foam-colored suit and matching contact lenses appeared on the screen.
“Ms. Waverly,” the reporter said, “what is the association’s position on standardized testing?”
“I’m so glad you asked, River. The Florida Principals Association recognizes that testing is a complex issue fraught with high emotion. We realize that a test does not fully reflect a child’s academic potential. At the same time, standardized tests provide us with measurable benchmarks to help kids succeed. The bottom line is, for me, it’s all about my kids.”
This woman should run for higher office. She had the art of talking while saying nothing down cold.
“But what about recent scandals from around the country where teachers, principals, and even a school board superintendent have been caught cheating—changing their students’ test answers—in order to jack up their schools’ ratings and increase their funding?” River asked.
“There will always be a few bad apples,” Ocean said. “That doesn’t mean the whole system is fatally flawed. In my school, my kids are paramount. And I know if you ask any other principal here, they’ll tell you the same thing.”
“All right, thank you for joining us, Ms. Waverly. Reporting from the Boca Beach Hilton, this is River Sims. Back to you, Lake.”
“Thank you, River. Coming up, you won’t believe what a local man found on the beach this morning. This is a story you won’t want to miss, so don’t go away, we’ll be right back.”
A commercial came on showing an elderly lady holding a hand to her head, looking befuddled. “Attention seniors!” a male voice boomed. “Is your memory slipping? Do you find yourself walking into a room and forgetting why you’re there?”
The scene switched to the woman entering a kitchen, then looking around aimlessly. “Do you forget where you put your car keys? Or your car?” Cut to the woman gazing around a parking lot. “Have you lost your focus, your concentration?” said the male voice. “Now there’s a revolutionary new cure—Turbo Brain.”
A bottle of the stuff appeared on screen. “This proprietary nutritional supplement has been clinically proven to improve cognitive ability. And it’s in liquid form, so there are no hard-to-swallow pills. Just two drops in a glass of water or juice will turbocharge your brain for hours. A twelve-ounce bottle is only $9.99—with a no-risk, money-back guarantee.” The numbers flashed on the screen in bright red. “Turbo Brain is available now in your local drugstore, nutrition shop, or supermarket. Get yours today.”
I pressed the mute button in disgust. As a Scam Buster, I knew a con when I saw one. These kinds of pitches for miracle “cures” for everything from arthritis to zinc deficiency were rampant in Boca, with its large senior population. Since they were billed as “nutritional supplements” rather than medications, the manufacturers could make any claim they wanted, with no regulatory oversight.
But that was hardly my problem right now. I tapped my foot in impatience. Dammit, I’d been in The Oasis nearly eighteen hours and didn’t have any solid leads. And I needed to be out of there by this evening so I could reunite with Lior when he returned from Israel. I needed some strategy . . . maybe I could wring some info out of Singh.
However, he still hadn’t shown up when the news came back on. I unmuted Lake.
“A South Florida resident made an unusual discovery this morning. You won’t believe your eyes. But first. A thirty-two-year-old man has died after consuming dozens of roaches and worms in an eating contest at an exotic pet store in a quest to win a rare python. The cause of death is unknown pending autopsy results.”
Seriously? The cause of death was unknown?
“And now. A blue eyeball the size of a softball washed up on the beach today. Take a look at this!”
The scene cut to the said object, draped in seaweed, rolling in the surf as a gaggle of near-naked beachgoers looked on with horrified expressions. “This was the scene early this morning on the Boca Raton beach,” Lake said. “At this point in time, Florida Fish and Wildlife officials have placed the eyeball on ice and will analyze it to determine its source. They say it may be from a whale, a giant squid, or a large fish.”
What, it wasn’t from a Martian or from some mutant experiment at a rogue eye clinic?
As we say down here, only in Florida.
The door to the inner office swung open, revealing a tall, olive-skinned man dressed in a long scarlet robe with a flared skirt. A matching turban on his head nearly brushed the top of the door frame. A graying beard flowed from his chin to his chest. A six-inch dagger rested in a sheath at his side.
My self-defense instincts kicked in. I shifted in my seat, ready to jump up and kick butt.
“Ms. Holloway? I’m Dr. Singh,” the man said in a sing-song voice. “My apologies for keeping you waiting. I see you’ve noticed my dagger.”
Okay, so he was a perceptive psychologist.
“Not to worry,” he said. “This is part of my traditional Sikh garb.”
“Your garb is sick?” I leaned away from him. “Is it contagious?”
“S-i-k-h,” he spelled. “An ancient religion of India.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” As if I knew that.
He didn’t look fooled. “Won’t you come in?”
I rose, clicked off the TV, and preceded him into his office. An ornate carved-wood desk with matching chairs upholstered in maroon velvet took up most of the space. Intricate Asian paintings of military battles and hunting scenes adorned the walls. We sat on opposite sides of the desk, which bore a compute
r monitor and a procession of hand-painted ceramic elephants.
“Let me share with you what we’ll be doing here today,” Singh said.
I nodded. Sure. Share all you want.
“My job is to administer some psychological tests to give us a better understanding of your personality so that we can tailor an individualized treatment plan for you.”
Great—a personality probe. I would need to keep my Inner Vigilante under wraps.
“Okay.” I smiled.
“We’ll begin with a standardized test called the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory. I’ll read you some true/false statements and enter your answers into the computer. Do you have any questions?”
“Standardized test? Is this anything like what kids take in school?” I felt myself freeze up, like those school kids who’d just been discussed on the news must have.
“Oh no, not at all,” Singh sang. “There are no right or wrong answers here. Just give your honest opinion. Are you ready?”
I nodded. I was always ready to give an opinion, honest or not.
“It would be better if almost all laws were thrown away. True or false?”
True! Then my Inner Vigilante could be set free. “False,” I said.
“I have often had to take orders from someone who did not know as much as I did. True or false?”
Hell, yes. My abusive husband. But I’d issued him the last order: “Go ahead, make my day!”
“False,” I said.
“Much of the time, my head seems to hurt all over. True or false?”
False, but it soon would if this stupid questioning went on much longer. “True.”
I needed to turn this interview around to my advantage. “Gee, Dr. Singh,” I asked, “I guess this test could tell you if someone has a psychopathic personality. Have you ever run across anyone like that in here?”
“Interesting that you should ask,” Singh said.
Yes! He was going to give up a clue.
“Do you feel that you might have psychopathic traits?” he asked.
Shit! He had turned it back around on me.
“No . . . just curious,” I said.
“Let’s continue, shall we?” he said.
So we did. After nearly an hour of questioning, I was ready to grab Singh’s dagger and stab myself.
“Okay, Ms. Holloway, you’ve done wonderfully,” he said at last.
“True,” I said.
“Oh, no, that wasn’t a statement.”
“It sounded like one to me.”
“Well, yes, it was a statement, but not from the test . . . do you need a break before we move on to the next test?”
Yeah, I needed a break—a break in the case. “I’m fine,” I said, smiling. “So tell me, doctor, what is the most interesting or unusual interview you’ve had?”
“Ms. Holloway, this session is all about you, not anyone else. This is your time.”
Right. And it was being wasted.
“Now I’m going to show you a series of cards with inkblots on them. Different people see different images in the inkblots. Just tell me the first thing that comes to your mind that you see in the card. Any questions?”
“Nope.” Just get this done and let me the hell out.
He held up the first card, bearing a black and red splotch.
Blood. Spreading. On Bruce’s chest. After I shot him.
“Ms. Holloway? What do you see?”
“Um . . . a butterfly.”
He nodded, held up the next card. Black and red streaks.
Blood spatter. On my clothes.
“Uh,” I swallowed. “Two people . . . playing a drum.”
Next card.
Blood dripping from hands.
“Uh . . . a crab.”
My faced burned. My skin itched. I couldn’t breathe.
“Miss Holloway, are you all right?”
“Um . . . actually, could I use your restroom?”
“But of course. It’s right out in the hall, on your right.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, and rushed to the door. In the hallway outside the waiting room, I saw the restroom sign. I pushed my way in, locking the door behind me. It was a single-user room with a toilet and sink.
I turned on the tap full force and splashed cold water on my face. I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were dilated, my hair seemed wilder than usual. I had to get out of here.
No. I would not run. I had a job to do. I had to bring those dead kids the justice they deserved. I had to stay.
I turned around and leaned against the sink. I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths to slow down my racing heart. My face was still warm, and my body broke out in a sweat. Was it unusually hot in there?
I opened my eyes and saw an air-conditioning vent in the ceiling above the toilet. I reached up a hand to feel for a breeze. There was only a weak flow. Then I saw something flapping inside the vent. Great—the airflow was blocked.
I climbed onto the toilet seat, one foot on either side. Bracing myself against the wall with one hand, I reached toward the vent with the other. My fingers just managed to brush the grate of the vent and push it aside on top of an adjoining ceiling tile. A cascade of paper came crashing down on my head. My foot slipped and plopped into the toilet bowl.
Shit, shit, shit.
I extracted my foot and clambered to the floor, shaking off the water. My boot squished as I set my foot down. At least it was not the boot with my gun in it.
I looked down at the pile of papers, knelt, and began to paw through them. What the hell?
An instruction manual for a vacuum cleaner. A list of ingredients torn from a cereal box.
And menus. The missing menus from the dining room.
What was going on here?
One more thick sheaf had wedged behind the toilet. I grasped it and pulled it out, falling onto my butt. It was part of a phone book. The Yellow Pages. Starting in the R’s. The other half of the torn phone book that Demarcus had been gripping when he was killed.
Chapter 12
I SAT THERE ON the floor of the restroom, holding the torn phone book, befuddled. What was this stash of printed material doing in the air-conditioning vent? Who had put it there? Why? I mean, I know all about bathroom reading, but c’mon.
The half of the phone book that Demarcus had clutched in his lifeless fist had ended in the R’s, although I hadn’t been able to get a closer look. Now, I saw that the first page of the section I held listed “Radio Stations.” What, if anything, could that have to do with Demarcus’s death?
Perhaps the phone book had already been torn before Demarcus got hold of it. But it seemed more likely that the tear was the result of a random split of the book as Demarcus and his killer pulled at it. But why would someone fight over a phone book? I guess the same reason Jessica and Amber had fought over the Coke bottle the previous night in the dining room—these people were addicts. Their actions weren’t rational. They weren’t in control of their emotions—they’d fight over anything.
And was the killer the same person who had stashed this half of the book in the ceiling? Probably. If you’ve fought to the death over something, presumably it’s vital to you. And you couldn’t just let it lie around in the open, since it would connect you to the crime.
So . . . whoever it was had to be tall and nimble enough to climb up there. The restroom was unisex, so that didn’t narrow the suspect list by gender.
My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the restroom door. “Ms. Holloway?” It was Singh. “Are you all right?”
Oh, hell. He expected me back to complete the psychological assessment. “I’ll be right out,” I called.
What to do with this pile of paper? It had to mean something. I didn’t wa
nt to throw it in the wastebasket, but I couldn’t just waltz out with it either. The only other option was to put it back and deal with it later. I gathered the papers and placed them on the toilet tank, then clambered back up onto the toilet seat and managed to stuff everything into the vent and replace the grate without another plunge into the bowl. When I stepped down, the water in my boot squished again.
I washed and dried my hands, then exited and went back down the hall to Singh’s office, squishing all the way. The inner office door was open, and I found Singh at his desk, working on his computer. Probably writing up his diagnoses of my mental condition. That could make for interesting reading . . . but that wasn’t what I was there for. Nor was I up for more of the inkblot bullshit.
“Dr. Singh, um, I’m not feeling very well,” I said. “Can we finish this another time?”
“Why of course,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“I . . . have a huge headache.”
“That can certainly be a withdrawal symptom. Why don’t I take you back to your room where the nurse can keep an eye on you? Then, let’s finish our assessment another time soon.”
“Oh, great.” I shot him what I hoped was a wan smile.
We exited the office. He closed the door behind us and led me back to the detox unit. If he noticed me squishing, he didn’t mention it. “Here we are,” he said as he opened the detox unit door with his magnetic key card.
Daniel, the nurse, rose from his station as I entered. “How are we doing?” he asked.
“We have a headache,” I said. “We would like to take a break out on the patio, if that’s okay with us.”
“Yes, by all means. There’s nothing on your schedule until after lunch, when you will attend a psycho-educational group session.”
Great, more fun times ahead.
“Would you like something for that headache?”
Yeah, a glass of Hennessy would be nice. Or a Hog ride.
“Thanks, but I think I just need some fresh air.” I strode out onto the patio and sat on the edge of one of the green-and-white striped lounge chairs. The air held a hint of approaching autumn, meaning the humidity might have been eighty percent instead of ninety. Maybe my drenched boot would have a chance of drying out here.
Boca Undercover Page 10
