by James Lepore
“Are any of your people detailed?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“There’s no task force?”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
“Okay, I thought I’d pass this on.”
“Thanks. I’ll call Markey. Can you pick up the snitch if he wants us to talk to him?”
“Sure. Like I said, he’s always around.”
Shaw hung up and went to work reviewing the State v. Taylor file, a case that was currently being tried in the Dade County Circuit Court, and that would require his testimony, he was told, that afternoon. The case involved the killing, by contract, of a nine-year-old boy who had witnessed a murder. The assistant prosecutor who was trying the case had prepped him thoroughly over the past two weeks, but Shaw wanted to leave nothing to chance. While he was reading, one of his detectives, a woman named Naomi Teller, popped in to tell him that Princess Di had been found dead the day before, that it looked like an overdose, or bad dope, with no signs of violence. “We’ll talk about it at the squad meeting,” he said, returning to his file.
At around eleven o’clock, his phone rang, and Shaw was told by the desk clerk that an Agent Phil Gatti of the DEA was on the line.
“Agent Gatti,” he said after picking up his phone. “Gary Shaw here.”
“Lieutenant Shaw, Phil Gatti. How are you?”
“Good. I’m good. What can I do for you?”
“It’s about this informant of yours, Princess Di?”
“Right. I spoke to Detective Hernandez this morning.”
“Right. I just got off the phone with Chris Markey. We’re on an FBI/DEA task force that he’s in charge of. He’s in Houston. He’s booked on a flight that gets him into Miami tonight at seven. He’d like to meet with you, and the informant, tonight, if possible.”
“The informant’s dead. I just found out a few minutes ago.”
“Christ. What happened?”
“OD. No violence.”
“Well, Markey may still want to talk to you. One of us will get back to you.”
Shaw did testify that afternoon, and it did not go well. The case against the shooter was over. He had received a life sentence with no possibility of parole. But he was not talking. As a result, the case against the defendant then on trial, who was in jail, awaiting trial on the original murder charge when the boy was killed, was difficult to prove. It hinged on a statement from a rival gang member, whose trial testimony that morning was weak. Shaw had taken a meticulous statement from this witness after interviewing him over the course of several days. He was also in jail at the time, and no promises were made. Something must have spooked him, because on the witness stand, he went about 90 percent into the tank. Shaw was called by the state to, in effect, impeach its own witness. Given the rival gang member’s imprecision on the stand, the defendant’s lawyer was hard on Shaw, accusing him throughout his cross-examination of coercing the witness into making a false statement.
Disgusted, praying that the judge would not throw the case out, Shaw returned to the Homicide Bureau to find a message that FBI Agent Chris Markey had called and asked to be called back at his hotel in Houston. Shaw was spent, but he called Markey.
“Agent Markey?”
“Yes.”
“Gary Shaw, Miami PD.”
“Hello, Lieutenant. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. How are you?”
“I’ve been better. We have a guy on trial for ordering the killing of a nine-year-old kid—he witnessed a shooting—and it looks like the bad guy may walk.”
“Jesus.”
“Right.”
“Is Jack Kendall still the head of homicide?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“We were on a task force a few years ago. Give him my regards.”
“I will.”
“Tell me about Princess Di.”
“A heroin addict, very bad, especially in the last year or two. No help anymore, really. He mentioned something that I connected to the killing of the Jersey PI in Miami Beach.”
“What did he say exactly?”
“I was asking him about a triple murder here. He said he knew nothing. He’s sweating and swooning. He pops up and says, ‘the Italian dude from Jersey, with all the cash, you want them?’ I pressed him, but he’s a total mess, getting delirious. I didn’t know what he was talking about. We released him. Then I remembered talking to Larry Warner when the case went down. So I called Miami Beach.”
“Was there any mention of the cash in the newspapers?”
“I have no idea.”
“I don’t think it was revealed.”
Shaw said nothing, surprised at Markey’s intensity, and wondering where this was going.
“What was Princess Di’s real name?”
“We think he was born Alan Douglas, in New York City.”
“Did he have family, friends?”
“He was a junkie. They don’t have friends, just people they get high with. I don’t know of any family.”
“Where did he live?”
“Sometimes he slept in the back of a beauty parlor in Overtown. The owner’s also a queen.”
“What’s the address of the beauty parlor?”
“It’s called Dixie’s Do’s. It’s on Thirty-sixth Avenue.”
“What do you know about Little Havana?”
“The usual.”
“Have you ever put anyone undercover there?” Markey asked.
“Yes. When I was working drugs.”
“How did it go?”
“We did well. But drug buyers and sellers are the same everywhere. It’s the rest of the community that’s hard to crack.”
“Do you have somebody we can put in there now?”
“On what?”
“This Del Colliano thing.”
“You’ll have to talk to Kendall about that.”
“Of course. Do you have any contacts in the community?”
“No, I don’t. Who are you looking for?”
“The woman. The Latin beauty.”
“You think she’s in Little Havana?”
“There’s a good chance she is.”
“Well, if Kendall wants me to help, I’m here.”
“Thanks. I’ll call Jack.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Good luck with your trial.”
“Thanks. We’ll need it.”
26.
5:00 PM, December 16, 2004, Miami Beach
While Gary Shaw was talking to Agent Markey, Jay and Dunn were pulling into the parking lot of the South Miami Beach Motor Hotel. They had stopped by earlier that day, but the clerk who had checked Danny in was not there, and they were told she would not be on duty until five p.m. They had lunch in the cramped coffee shop, and then took a few minutes to look around. The guest quarters consisted of some six two-story concrete “villas” with names like Bougainvillea and Gardenia, although there was no evidence of any such flowers in sight. The oversized pool, devoid of swimmers, stood baking in the late day tropical sun. There were long, jagged cracks in its concrete apron, which was also empty and silent.
The desk clerk who greeted Jay and Dunn when they returned at five was a big-boned mulatto woman, around thirty, her skin creamy smooth, with green eyes and freckles and a surprising, beaming smile that turned her plain face pretty and sexy. They introduced themselves and explained their business, Dunn showing her his Essex County Prosecutor’s badge and ID, and telling her they were trying to tie up loose ends in the case. She confirmed that she was at the front desk the night Danny checked in and, eying Jay from head to toe, said she’d be happy to talk, inviting them to sit in the “lounge,” a fifteen-foot-by-fifteen-foot space with plastic furniture to the right of the front desk. Her name was Rhonda.
“You look like that rock guy,” Rhonda said to Jay once they were seated. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know,” said Jay, smiling despite himself.
“The one who’s buried in Paris.”
“Jim Morrison,” said Dunn.
“That’s it!” said Rhonda. “I just saw a TV show on him. Man, he was cute.”
“I can’t believe you know who Jim Morrison is,” Jay said to Dunn.
“Love Me Two Times,” said Dunn.
“You got that right,” said Rhonda.
Jay laughed out loud, as much at the exchange between Rhonda and Dunn as at the detective’s deadpan delivery, be-lied by the twinkle dancing for a split second in his pale blue, bloodshot eyes.
“I remember the guy,” said Rhonda, smiling her big smile at Jay and nodding. “What about him?”
“Was the FBI here as well?” Dunn asked.
“Yes, blue suit.”
“Anybody else?”
“No. Until now.”
“Did you see the body?” Dunn asked.
“No. Just Lourdes. No way I need to see a dead body.”
“Did Dan say anything when he checked in?” Jay asked.
“Is Dan the dead guy?”
“Yes.”
“No. He was quiet, serious, you know?”
“Nothing?”
“Just ‘Hello, I need a room. On the second floor. In the back.’ I put him in G208.”
“What do you think happened?” Dunn asked.
“Shit,” said Rhonda, “drugs, robbers, jealous husband . . .”
“Was there a woman?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Did Dan look like anybody famous?” Jay asked.
Rhonda smiled again as she thought about this, then said, “No. Maybe a Latin lover type.”
“Can you describe him?” Jay asked.
“Tall, black hair, mustache, nice silk shirt.”
“Were you shown mug shots?”
“The FBI guy did.”
“Not the Miami detectives?”
“No.”
“Did you recognize anybody?”
“No, but they were bad pictures.”
“Bad pictures?”
“They were fuzzy.”
“You mean grainy?” Jay asked, breaking into Dunn’s staccato string of questions, “like with a telephoto lens?”
“That’s it,” said Rhonda, “like they were at an airport, or getting out of a car, you know? Not like mug shots like you see on TV.”
“Were you questioned at headquarters?” Dunn began again.
“They said they would bring me down, then they never came back.”
“Who, Miami?”
“Yes.”
“Does Lourdes still work here?”
“No, she went back to Guatemala around Thanksgiving. Good luck finding her.”
“What kind of car was the guy driving?”
“I didn’t see it.”
“Did he put it down on the registration card?”
“No. He just scribbled his name.”
There was a pause, a short moment of introspection for all three.
“How long was Lourdes working here?” Jay asked.
“About six months.”
“What time did she come on duty?”
“Nine a.m.”
“Did the FBI guy leave his card?” Frank asked.
“No.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“No.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was a strict-looking guy, gray hair, around fifty.”
“Anything in particular you remember him saying, or asking?”
“No, the same as you guys. He showed me the pictures.”
“How many pictures?” Jay asked.
“Two.”
“What size?”
“Big. Eight-by-ten?”
“Were they of the same guy?”
“It was two guys, Spanish, maybe Mexican-looking. I thought one could be the guy, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to make a mistake.”
Another pause followed this exchange, in which Rhonda looked from Jay to Dunn and back to Jay, ready for the next question. Jay could tell from her face, composed but expectant, that this was more interesting to her by far than checking horny teenagers, budget-obsessed tourists, and tired salesmen into the South Miami Beach Motor Hotel. But the interview had reached the top of its arc, and was over. When she realized this, she said to Jay, “I’m sorry I wasn’t any help.”
“No, you were helpful,” he said. “We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us.”
“Was Dan your friend?” Rhonda asked.
Jay looked at Rhonda, finding himself hoping he would get one more of her face-changing smiles before he and Dunn left. He had made a mistake by referring to Dan as anything other than “the victim” or “the dead guy.” Or had he? There was a point in the conversation when Rhonda seemed more interested in helping. He shrugged inwardly. It didn’t matter.
“Yes,” he said. “He was a good friend.”
“That’s too bad,” she said. “That’s tough.”
They were both, he knew, thinking of the way Danny had died.
“You know,” said Rhonda, “while you’re in town, you could call me. Maybe I can get that laugh out of you again. You are a handsome devil.”
“Thank you, Rhonda,” Jay replied, smiling, “maybe I will,” knowing he wouldn’t, unless it had something to do with Danny.
27.
6:00 PM, December 16, 2004, Miami
Jay and Dunn were staying at the Silver Sands Hotel in North Miami Beach—ten stories of white brick, with a pool in back, surrounded by imported palm trees and beds of brightly-colored flowers. From their fifth floor balconies they could see across A1A to the ocean, a dazzling, foamy green, quite different from the steely blue Atlantic along the Jersey coast. They had picked the place because it was close—but not too close—to where Danny was killed, in South Beach, with its all-night noise and its crowds of multicultural and multi-gendered partiers. After their talk with Rhonda, they returned to the Silver Sands, where Jay changed into a bathing suit, took one of the room towels, and walked across the street to the beach. He swam for a few minutes, and then lay on the towel on the warm sand as gulls circled and dove, feeding in the surf. He and Dunn had spent three days at an isolated fishing camp on Big Pine Key, where the wound on Jay’s arm, bloody but superficial, had healed, and where they were apprised, via calls to Linda Marshall, of the lay of the land in Jersey.
Jay had been at Ocean Beach in San Francisco the day his parents’ plane went down. They had gone first to Seattle to visit cousins who had moved away years before. His mother, anxious to see her only child after a five month interval, wanting to surprise him, had talked his father into cutting their Seattle visit short by two days. Carmela, forty-nine, was completing her seventh year teaching senior English and Latin at a private high school in Montclair. That year her students had read A Death in the Family and So Long, See You Tomorrow, lessons, she told Jay, in the sadness that permeates and shapes all of our lives.
A.J., fifty-three, could hardly believe that he had put in nineteen years at the A&P, where he was now the head baker. Though he rarely showed it, the sadness that Carmela was referring to haunted his memories of Newark’s First Ward, where he had left behind the dignity of running his own business and his own life, losses as profound and life changing as those suffered by James Agee’s fictional family and William Maxwell’s heartbroken narrator.
Jay heard about the crash on his car radio as he drove home from the beach, thanking God it was not his parents’ plane that had gone down. In the chaos that followed over the next few days, Danny appeared. He helped Jay pack his things. He talked him into attending a memorial service on Mount Tam, where people said they saw the plane fall into the sea. He bought airline tickets and took Jay home. And now he was dead, too.
Jay had never fired a gun in his life, not even held one, but while on Big Pine Key, Frank Dunn took him to a god-forsaken mangrove swamp, where he fired Dunn’s police-issue .38 revolver many times. Lying on the beach, he recalled the rush of adrenaline before, and the euphoric c
alm after each shot he fired at the bottles and cans Dunn had patiently teed up on a decrepit tree trunk. Dunn, grim faced, showed him the proper stance and grip; told him to squeeze off the round rather than jerking the trigger, to absorb the kick with his full body. Firing the gun had centered him, confirmed for him the necessity, the inevitability, of what he was doing.
When he returned to the hotel, he found Dunn sitting at one of the outdoor tables near the pool bar, drinking what looked like a gin and tonic. He was wearing the same drab suit and tie he had worn on the plane and for the interview with the hotel clerk, and would probably wear the entire time he was in Florida. His only concession to the tropical weather was an odd-looking woven hat that he wore to protect his balding head from the sun. Jay joined him and ordered a scotch to bring back to his room to drink while he was shaving and showering. They were meeting Angelo Perna at eight o’clock at El Pulpo.
“Nice swim?” Dunn asked.
“Yes. It was good.”
“Linda called.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“I did.”
“What’s up?”
“Your picture was in the Times and the Daily News this week. The FBI wants to talk to you about Bill Davis’s murder.”
“So there’s a manhunt on?”
“It’s not funny, Jay. There’s more.”
“What?”
“Cheryl called her. Markey’s people are all over her. They’ve threatened to arrest her as a material witness if she doesn’t tell them where you are.”
Jay shook his head. He had called Cheryl from Big Pine Key to tell her that he would be away indefinitely and to give all client matters to Don Jacobs, but he hadn’t told her where he was or what his plans were.
“Cheryl’s gotten a lawyer,” Dunn said, “and offered to take a lie detector test.”
“Unbelievable.”
“She’s a tough kid.”
“Anything else?”
“There’s a hearing scheduled for Monday on the subpoena for Linda’s notes. The paper’s lawyers say they’ve never seen the US Attorney’s Office so worked up over a case like this. There’s a good chance she’ll go to jail for contempt.”
Jay said nothing. He knew that Linda’s notes contained nothing more than what was revealed in her article, that it was Kate Powers’s letters that she was prepared to go to jail over. She was tough, but jail? With two young kids? Jay did not trust Chris Markey, and was not about to cooperate in his investigation, but he could get him off of Cheryl’s back, and maybe Linda’s. When he got back to his room, before getting in the shower, he called the FBI’s office in Newark and left a message for Agent Markey to call him at the Silver Sands Hotel in North Miami Beach.
