Dan’s career was longer than most cops’. But now it had ended, and he was leaving behind cases that no other Miami homicide detective would even remember, much less pursue. The victims were forgotten, except by a few loved ones—and Daniel P. Flood. Dan was the last link to these murder victims, and unless his doctors were mistaken, he would soon join them.
Chapter 2
I woke up earlier than usual, thinking about the Mary Beth Rafferty case and what Lottie had said. I spooned cat food into Billy Boots’s dish, ignored Bitsy’s wagging tail, and popped her into the tub. Soaked and soaped up, she looked more like an oversized rat than a toy poodle. But she endured the shower spray and the brushing and combing with patient good humor. I never wanted a yappy little dog, but I had inherited Bitsy after the sudden death of her owner, who was killed in the line of duty. Ducking the dog’s vigorous shaking, I wrapped her in a bath towel, carried her to the kitchen, and fed her breakfast. When she finished I got the leash and took her for a run to dry off.
Carefully skirting puddles and dirty gutters, we jogged slowly to the boardwalk and back. Very slowly. Bitsy’s legs are short. By the time I picked her up to carry her the last block, she was all fluffy white and panting for a drink.
After I showered, slipped on a subdued dress, and fortified myself with strong Cuban coffee, I tied a red ribbon in her topknot the way Francie always did and drove her to Miami police headquarters. This was Bitsy’s first trip back to the station, but she remembered, growing eager as we climbed out of the T-Bird. She even tried to scamper into the front seat of the first patrol car we passed. I tugged at her leash as the officer quickly closed his door.
“Sorry,” I said. “She thinks she’s still a police dog.”
The ceremony hadn’t started yet, and people were still milling about the cavernous lobby. I worried that someone might object to my bringing Bitsy to this solemn occasion, but instead I got several sad nods from patrolmen. We stood off to one side, watching. The chief and his staff appeared in full dress uniform with gold braid. I spotted Dan then, caught his eye, and smiled. He made his way across the lobby and stood next to me.
“Hey, there, you look great, kid.”
“So do you, Dan.” We both knew that was a lie. The man had changed so much that seeing him was almost painful. He looked shrunken and suddenly aged. In twelve months, thirty pounds had melted from a frame that had been strong, beefy, and vital.
There were other officers and detectives and a number of civilians, some I knew from covering too many police funerals. This time I took no notes. We were there to pay our respects.
An honor guard marched in smartly, carrying the stars and stripes and the flags of Florida and Miami. The chief stepped to the microphone.
“We have gathered here on this police memorial day to honor fallen heroes, men—and women—who made the supreme sacrifice to protect and preserve the lives and well-being of the citizens of this city.” The feedback from the mike made his voice echo in the huge lobby. “Especially the new names engraved on this memorial since we last met here.”
I studied Dan’s creased face as he stared straight ahead. He closed his eyes, head down, lips moving silently. His name was not among those we honored, but he had given his life as well. The job has killed him too, I thought.
The chief strode forward and placed a wreath of spring flowers, carnations, lilies, and daisies, in front of the memorial, a huge twenty-by-twelve-foot stainless steel plaque. Thirty-two names, officers who died in the line of duty, and the dates of their deaths were engraved in the shining reflective surface.
On cue, a dispatcher began the roll call of dead heroes. Each name was broadcast as if in Surround Sound via the police radios worn by all the officers present.
A small boy wearing a tiny police uniform snapped to a salute. The elderly couple with him wiped away tears. The faded-looking man rested one arthritic hand on the little boy’s shoulder and reached his other arm around the woman to comfort her. I remembered their handsome, husky son, the little boy’s dad, a motorcycle patrolman. I tried not to look at the child.
When the dispatcher called Francie’s name, Bitsy’s ears perked. She strained at her leash, prancing in place, and began to bark excitedly. When I picked her up, she uttered a high-pitched whine as if in pain. I hid my face in her soft fur and carried her outside.
We waited until the seven-man honor guard marched out to the front of the station. The sergeant ordered them to present arms. The trumpeter played taps and the honor guard fired three volleys, a twenty-one-gun salute. Bitsy never flinched, but I did.
Dan came up beside me. “I knew so many of them.” He shook his head. “All those good cops, gone. For what? Murderers laugh at the system. They get away with it. You know the one who killed Foster in that Overtown ambush has already been paroled?”
I didn’t know.
“And the scum who shot Francie during the riot has never been caught,” he muttered. He patted Bitsy’s head awkwardly, like a man unaccustomed to touching such a small dog.
“You’re a survivor too, little one.”
I shifted Bitsy to my left arm, dug in my pocket for a Kleenex, and blew my nose.
We made a date for lunch on my next day off and I drove Bitsy home. She crouched as usual on the passenger-side floorboard. Poor Bitsy, I thought. She and Billy Boots tolerated one another, but her new lifestyle must seem dull. Our only drama and excitement came at mealtimes, as I tried to keep the cat away from the dog food and restrain the dog from diving into the cat’s dinner.
My wonderful landlady, Helen Goldstein, takes Bitsy out frequently and fusses over her until I come home. The dog does not lack attention, but no way could her current life compare to the excitement of being smuggled into a patrol car at midnight with her policewoman owner and being involved in high-speed chases and transporting prisoners to jail until dawn. No wonder Bitsy yawned and looked bored. We both missed Francie. Dan was right. There is no justice, I thought. I dropped the dog off at home and went to work.
On the way to the office I thought about what Dan had said, and Lottie the night before. I thought about Mary Beth Rafferty. I made some telephone checks. My beat seemed quiet, and I told the city desk I was working on a weekender about the Downtown Rapist. Then I sent to the library for the clips on the Rafferty case.
The newspaper library was still called the morgue when Mary Beth Rafferty was killed. Every story was clipped and filed by hand, hard copies with the headlines and photos still attached. Yellowed but intact, they are neatly folded into bulging pastel-colored envelopes. Sometimes other reporters neglect to refile them properly and they are difficult to find, but the old clippings are easier to read than today’s endless gray computer printouts. Those were simpler times at the newspaper, before computerization, and simpler times for Miami. Murder was not yet common, and a case like Mary Beth Rafferty’s commanded frontpage coverage for weeks.
The same photo accompanied most of the stories. Mary Beth was dressed as if for Easter Sunday. Her nose was small and turned up, and she had Shirley Temple curls under a narrow brimmed bonnet that tied in a bow beneath her chin. She was eight years old.
She was naked when found, a cloth stuffed in her mouth. Some stories said she had been sexually molested, others implied she had been sexually mutilated. Her body bore signs of a struggle with her killer. Stories by two long-gone reporters disclosed that police had immediately rounded up more than two dozen known “sex perverts and suspicious characters.” Within days they had questioned two hundred men.
There was minor mention of the playmate with her that afternoon. Frightened, he had gone home after Mary Beth was snatched. When the girl’s mother began looking for her, he said a stranger had taken her.
The stories reported that the body had been discovered by a teenage boy, Eric Fielding, son of a prominent family and a student at prestigious Bayside Academy.
Months after the murder, Mary Beth’s father, an i
nsurance salesman, had offered a $10,000 reward for the arrest and conviction of his little girl’s killer. “Nothing has happened on the case in three months,” William Rafferty was quoted as saying. “The police claim they’re still working on it, but I think they’ve dumped it into their dead files. The monster who did this terrible thing has got to be caught.”
Detective Daniel P. Flood had responded to the father’s allegation of inaction. “We are actively investigating,” he was quoted as saying. “This case is not forgotten, and it won’t be until it’s solved.”
He meant it, I thought, feeling a rush of affection for the man and wondering if anybody else on the department still remembered little Mary Beth.
William and Judith Rafferty were not in the current telephone book. Their address at the time of the murder was now given in the city directory as that of a Ronald DeAngelo, phone unlisted.
I knew I should be working on the rape story for the weekend, but I decided to drive over there and see what I could find out before other news stories broke and I missed my chance.
The Roads section was a graceful neighborhood of ancient trees and sprawling houses. A shaded flagstone walk led up to an old-fashioned screened porch.
An attractive dark-haired woman answered the door. Fashionably dressed and made up, she was one of those women of indeterminable age, anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five. She wore a linen dress in cool pastel blue and was fastening a single strand of pearls.
I introduced myself, apologizing for troubling her. “I’m looking for some people who used to live here, the Raffertys.”
“I’m just on my way out.” Her voice was soft and cultured.
“Do you remember them?”
Her smile was hesitant. “Yes, I do.”
“Any idea how I can reach them?”
“They were divorced many years ago,” she said quietly.
“I didn’t know that,” I said, frowning, wondering if we were talking about the same people. “The couple that lost their little girl?”
The woman shook her head. “They didn’t lose her,” she corrected. “She was taken, murdered.”
Something about her voice told me whom I was talking to. “Are you a relative?”
“I’m Judith Rafferty DeAngelo,” she said. “What do you want?”
“I had some questions about Mary Beth.”
Families are usually thrilled when a reporter delves into the unsolved murder of a loved one. They want justice and are relieved that someone else cares. But of course most such cases are not more than two decades old.
“Why now?” She looked puzzled. “Is there a new development in the case?”
“Not really,” I said, fumbling. “But it was very newsworthy, and sometimes we go back and follow up old stories.”
“There have been thousands of murders in Miami since my little girl—” She checked her gold watch. “You can come in for a few minutes.”
I followed her into a well-furnished parlor with heavily draped windows, a shiny hardwood floor, and oriental rugs. A family portrait hung over the fireplace. Apparently she and her new husband had two more daughters.
“They’re eleven and twelve now,” she said, following my eyes to the portrait. “Wonderful girls.”
“They’re lovely,” I murmured, then plowed on to the reason for my visit. “What did you think then? Did you and your husband ever have any gut feelings, any real suspects in the murder?”
She hesitated, then glanced again at my card. “Miss Montero, I don’t know if you have children—”
“No, I don’t, but I can imagine how terrible—”
“No, you can’t,” she said. “No one can who hasn’t lived through it. It destroyed us. Our marriage. My former husband’s life. It nearly ruined mine.
“You have to realize that none of the victims’ advocate or support groups like Parents of Murdered Children existed then. We had to get through it alone. My husband could not handle it. They even questioned his whereabouts at the time our daughter was taken. It was apparently routine police procedure, but he couldn’t forget or forgive that he could even be suspected of such a horrible crime against his own child. The detective was very kind and tried to help, but when no one was arrested William became disappointed with the police and obsessed by the case.”
“I saw his reward offer in the clips.”
She nodded. “When it amounted to nothing, he hired private investigators. They did nothing but take our money. He went to psychics who took what was left. He drank.” Her brisk, busy demeanor had slowed and softened to an attitude of hurtful remembrance, as though a past not easily forgotten had overtaken her.
“Is Mary Beth’s father still in Miami?”
“He’s dead,” she said simply, eyes never wavering.
“I didn’t know that,” I said. “I didn’t see it reported.”
“He relocated to Atlanta after our divorce. A heart attack, six years after the murder. He was thirty-nine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It nearly destroyed me, too, but I refused to let it happen. The detective…”
“Dan Flood?”
“That’s right, Detective Flood. He kept coming back, to say he hadn’t forgotten. But there was never anything new, and all it did was reopen old wounds. I was finally forced to tell him not to contact me again unless it was to report the arrest of the person responsible.”
I swallowed and nodded. Putting the past behind her had been a matter of survival, but it seemed sad for Mary Beth.
“Our old neighbors have all either died or moved away. My daughters know very little about all this.” She leaned forward, the light in her eyes slightly hostile. “Do you realize how difficult it is not to be an overprotective parent after such a tragedy? Especially when they were Mary Beth’s age.” She smiled and closed her eyes for a moment. “That’s the first time in years I’ve spoken her name. Do you realize that Mary Beth would be almost thirty by now?” Her voice was low. “She’d have children of her own.” She stood abruptly and checked her watch again. “We don’t want publicity. To what end? We certainly don’t want to invite any more tragedy into our lives.”
“It had to be a very difficult time to endure,” I murmured.
“It was. I never would have survived without the help of Sylvia and Matthew Fielding,” she said, as we walked to the door.
My spine began to tingle. “Oh? The candidate’s parents?”
“A wonderful family. And a wonderful man. I hope he wins.”
“He was the one who found your daughter that day.”
“Yes.” Her eyes clouded. “We knew them only slightly then, as neighbors, but as parents they reached out to us in every way. They even made it possible for me to remain in this house after the divorce, and when I remarried they helped Ronald launch his business.”
“They invested?”
She nodded. “Matthew Fielding is my husband’s partner in the business. Fluorescent light bulbs. The factory is in Hialeah.”
My mind raced. “What about the little boy, Mary Beth’s playmate that day?”
She paused and tilted her head as she held the door open for me. “I’m not sure what became of them,” she said as I stepped outside. “I can’t recall the woman’s name. She worked as a domestic at a home here in the neighborhood. Her poor child was traumatized, and she was terribly upset. It was all so long ago.” And she closed the door behind me.
I detoured, on the way back to the paper, to drive by the murder scene. The spot where Mary Beth Rafferty’s body was found on that long-ago afternoon was gone. No mangroves, no sandy filled-in lot. The Sea Breeze, a fourteen-story condominium with a pool and covered parking, now occupied the site.
At the office, I spent some time in the library reading about Eric Fielding. He was well known, but unlike many of my colleagues, I have never been thrilled by the power and glory of politics and rarely riveted by its coverage. He liked to describe himse
lf as a law-and-order candidate and was a strong supporter of capital punishment.
That was interesting, but I felt inclined to drop the whole thing at that point, until I read more about the candidate’s private life. The details sounded harmless but made the hairs prickle on the back of my neck.
Fielding had married late, just a few years ago, and when he did, he married a widow with a little girl. His stepdaughter was now eight years old.
Chapter 3
I wanted to talk to Fred Douglas, the city editor, but he was not in his office. Gretchen caught me as I left to go home.
“How’s the rapist piece coming?”
My expression must have looked blank, because her eyes grew suspicious.
“Your weekender on the Downtown Rapist,” she said accusingly. “It’s on the budget.”
“No problem,” I said. “You’ll have it.”
Back to the present, I thought, pushing the past out of my mind and heading home to work in peace.
I opened a bottle of Iron Beer and sat down at my kitchen table to study my notes on the Downtown Rapist.
He was a predator who stalked working women. Six so far—that were known. Cops suspect that for every reported rape, as many as ten go unreported. Nobody knows for sure.
This attacker was in his thirties, spoke with a Spanish accent, and ambushed his victims in the brightly lit office towers that spike the downtown skyline. He selected the one location where finding women was guaranteed: the women’s rest room. When his victim entered, he was waiting.
My concentration was broken by the telephone on the counter behind me. Startled, I snatched it up, forgetting I was not at the office.
“Britt Montero.”
“Hello, dear,” my mother said. “Where were you?”
“Just got home.” I tucked the mouthpiece under my chin.
“You work too hard.”
“So do you, Mom.” In retail fashion for years, she now managed the main downtown office for a growing chain of boutiques.
Miami, It's Murder Page 3
