Taking a deep breath, I began to regain perspective, realizing how much I needed this respite. Then I began to wonder if I really should have included that line about the rapist’s virility in my story. I looked around. There had to be a phone aboard this boat, I thought. No. I forced thoughts of the newsroom from my mind, focusing on Miami’s chameleon colors, shifting shades of aquamarine, silver, and grass green.
We rumbled away from the dock, and the Dupont Plaza hotel drifted by to the south, near the mouth of the Miami River, which was crystal clear and clean enough to drink from until 1896, not coincidentally the year the city was born. The Dupont site was always inhabited. Slaves, settlers, soldiers, and Seminoles were early residents, but not the first. Builders paved over a massive Tequesta burial mound for hotel parking. The hotel opened in 1957, and my mother attended fashion shows, luncheons, and afternoon tea dances there. Miamians of every generation have had their own personal memories of the Dupont Plaza or the historic ground on which it was built.
My memories are unfortunate. Whenever I see the hotel, a wedding comes to mind. I was neither invited nor a participant. I was dispatched to cover it after gunfire broke out. I remember the beautifully appointed buffet table and its centerpiece, a magnificent multi-tiered wedding cake. Hors d’oeuvres platters, fresh shrimp nestled on shaved ice, and lavish flowers. Two rows of just-filled champagne glasses remained undisturbed. Ideal images for the caterer’s advertising brochure, except for two men in evening clothes sprawled dead across the table next to the cake. One had been best man, the other a guest. The shooter, an old acquaintance of the bride, had not been invited, obviously for good reason.
We cruised past the causeways, the cruise ships, and the rich red rooftops of Fisher Island, where homes and condos, accessible only by boat, sell for millions; past waterfront property commandeered by an increasing army of homeless people who hang their tatty belongings from the fences intended to keep them out.
His resonant voice rich and professional, Curt was giving his spiel, pointing out the seaplane terminal on Watson Island, the Freedom Tower, and the big News building on the bay.
I listened demurely as our handsome captain show-boated as though for me alone, smiling and boldly winking until I couldn’t help flushing and smiled back. He was telling a story about the hermit who lived in 1925 on a small sandy spoil island which is now the Dodge Island seaport. I knew this snippet of history. The hermit had refused to evacuate his tiny island as the savage hurricane of 1926 stormed toward the coast, and he was never seen again.
“Except,” our captain intoned, “on moonless evenings, when port employees, crewmen, and tourists have reported sightings of a mysterious bearded man. They are especially prevalent whenever storms threaten: the ghost of the Dodge Island hermit, stalking his former home.”
The tourists shivered with delight as I looked questioningly at our captain. I never heard that the hermit was haunting Dodge Island. Curt continued, adding that the summer storm season produced so many eerie sightings that some workers had quit their jobs while others refused to remain at the port after dark. I frowned, wanting to talk to people who had seen the apparition.
The landmark Palm Island home where mobster Al Capone died in 1947 was now in view. Tourists snapped pictures as our captain described how Capone masterminded his vast criminal empire from poolside at his waterfront mansion and how machine-gun fire had cut down Capone henchmen on that very strip of causeway in a deadly territorial dispute with Florida mobsters. Wait just one minute, I thought, sitting up straight in my seat. Gotcha! That one never happened. Our captain was telling them tall! One perk of being on the News payroll was access to the library, where I love to pore over old original news accounts. Scarface came to Miami to escape Chicago’s cold winters and brutal violence and pretty much minded his manners. By the end he was too brain-damaged from venereal disease to run any criminal enterprise.
If the captain saw my skeptical squint as he steered us into the sun, he showed no sign. We chugged north, under the drawbridge where he had spotted Eldridge’s submerged car. A network of pilings outlined the watery rectangle once intended to be Pelican Island.
“Starboard, to your right,” broadcast our captain, “you can see the pilings that form the framework of Pelican Island, once planned as a romantic honeymoon Garden of Eden for a lovestruck millionaire in the twenties.” His eyes lingered fondly on me. “The man-made tropical island was to be his wedding gift to a beautiful Ziegfeld Follies showgirl. But his sweetheart died tragically on her way to join him in Miami. Heartbroken, he abandoned construction and died soon after.” The captain’s voice was low as he related the tragedy, his eyes solemn. He paused for dramatic effect. The tourists were rapt. “Some called it suicide,” he said, his voice regaining its brisk pace, “but I call it a broken heart. The island was never completed and the pilings remain, half a century later, a monument to love.”
A beautiful story, well told. Truly impressed, I cut my eyes at Captain Norske as the tourists gazed mournfully at the lonely pilings and mouthed the words, “You’re full of crap.” He did a double take, then winked before continuing his talk, standing strong at the helm, overlooking his watery domain like a prince of the sea.
Not a word was true. The Venetian Islands, strewn east-west across the bay, were built in the twenties. Pelican Island, slightly to the north, was to follow, next in the newly emerging island chain, but the developers went broke in the bust that followed the 1926 hurricane.
Late-afternoon sun streaked the water crimson as we pulled back into the berth. The tourists scattered, and the captain and I strolled to an outdoor café serving up big strawberry and banana frozen daiquiris along with music from a steel-drum band.
He looked relaxed and happy. I couldn’t stand it. “Where did you get that Pelican Island story?”
“Like it?” He flashed his megawatt smile. He was pleased.
I jabbed at my icy drink with a plastic straw. “None of it’s true, you know. The millionaire and the showgirl, it sounds like some old B-movie.”
He looked wounded, brushing back his shock of blond hair. “It’s original,” he said. “I made it up myself.”
“Right. The truth is that the developers went broke and stopped construction.”
“Think tourists want to hear that? It’s a yawn. Doesn’t have the right mystique.”
“The city has enough authentic mystique.” I couldn’t help smiling. “I love Miami, but sometimes I swear Rod Serling must be the mayor. You don’t need to make up stories.”
“You don’t understand these summer tourists,” he said seriously. “They’re not the rich and famous, they’re not historians researching books. They’re people who worked all year for this vacation. Think they wanna hear how some developer went broke? They want adventure, romance, chills, and thrills.”
“Such as the ghost of Dodge Island?”
He grinned. “Like that one?” The top two buttons of his uniform shirt were undone and golden hairs peeked through, glistening in the waning sunlight.
“I don’t believe it. Nobody’s ever really seen him. Right?”
The stress of interrogation apparently caused him to gulp his daiquiri too fast, and he winced in pain as it froze his sinuses.
“Don’t you think you have an obligation to the truth?” I demanded, as he gasped and massaged the spot between his eyebrows. “Don’t you feel guilty about misleading your passengers?”
“No and no,” he said, and leaned toward me across the small table. “You know better than most of us that the truth can be too mean. Think these people spending their last buck for some fun and good memories want to hear about the rapist you’re writing about? Or grim, depressing facts? Nah. They get that on the news every night back home. Money’s tight, they want to play. Give ’em a break. Let ’em take home a few good stories. You’re the one with the obligation to be absolutely accurate, the five W’s or whatever,” he said, gesturing broadly. “Not me
. I’m entertainment. These people are blowing big bucks on a vacation. My job is to make it memorable. That’s my obligation.” His righteous smile melted my disapproval. Or maybe it was the daiquiri. I knew what he meant about cold, hard truth. That’s why I was here. I wanted a vacation from the truth myself. But what he did was still unethical, I thought.
“You work this hard at making everything memorable?”
His piercing eyes met mine. “Character flaw. I’m a unrepentant perfectionist. What about you, Britt?”
I knew he was coming on to me, but I felt a tightness in my chest and a tingle below the waist. I sucked my upper lip and gazed into my glass to suppress a silly grin.
“You probably deserve the Academy Award,” I admitted grudgingly. “The Pelican Island story is excellent. Of course, you know there was no Capone shootout in Miami?”
He nodded. “Sure, but what’s a Capone story without machine guns?”
We rode south in his convertible, top down, my hair streaming in the wind, the night soft and steamy around us. We ate dinner at a seafood restaurant in north Largo. We danced to island music with a throbbing drumbeat. Curt was built like an athlete, with narrow hips and the natural grace of a man comfortable in his own body. He had a lot more warmth and rhythm than one would expect from a Scandinavian sailor type. He held me close as we slow-danced, and I closed my eyes, blocking out every troubling thought about my job, every disturbing vision, every fear. Except for one embarrassing moment when he buried his face in my hair. “What is that?” he asked, sniffing. “Some kind of conditioner? Smells like salad dressing.”
Later he took me to my car parked back at Bayside and we necked and petted like teenagers in the vast darkness of the nearly empty parking garage. He was very warm and sexy—as far as it went. And I wanted it to go further but was suddenly startled in his embrace, certain I heard a sly footfall in the shadows around us. “What was that?” I said fearfully, eyes straining. “Somebody’s out there.”
He blinked, gazing around sleepily. “Nothing,” he murmured in my ear. “You always this jumpy?” Maybe the sound was my subconscious stepping on the brakes, I thought. Caution and common sense prevailed, as I pried my body loose from his and insisted on going home. Before I did, Curt insisted that I agree to an unscheduled night cruise aboard the Dancer, as his only passenger. “Nothing like it,” he promised. “We can anchor out there alone in the middle of the bay, under a full moon. Wait till you see how it looks on the water.”
Sounded dangerous to me: bad, mad, and damn good.
I promised to think about it. He said he’d check to see when the next full moon was due and let me know.
I drove home as though in a drugged stupor, yearning for sleep, even if it was alone. As I dropped my clothes and slid into bed, my thoughts, strangely enough, centered around Kendall McDonald and the comfort we had found in each other’s arms until our careers tore us apart.
Chapter 15
My mini-vacation faded fast the next morning. My phone messages, some computerized and printed out, others handwritten by a city-desk clerk, were waiting. The initial flood of calls on the rapist was down to a trickle. The last pink message slip bore a cryptic note. Caller says “Maybe a blonde next time.” That was it, no name or number. I squinted at the words a second time as chills rippled up and down my arms. No, I thought hopefully. It can’t be.
I showed it to Gloria, the city-desk clerk. “Did you take this one?”
“No.” She looked up at me, her black eyes curious.
“Who did?” Day and time had been left blank, as was the space the message taker should have initialed.
Gloria studied it. “If it came in today, it could be the new intern who sat in while I took a break, or anybody on the city desk.”
“This could be important,” I said urgently. Gloria’s eyes fell again to the words on the slip of paper. I realized that the content certainly didn’t make it appear important. But Gloria is a champ. She takes me at my word.
“That could be Gretchen’s printing,” she said finally.
“Oh, no,” I moaned.
Gretchen peered at the message slip as though I was proffering a doggie turd. “I wouldn’t know, Britt.”
“It could be important. Surely if you took such an unusual message you’d remember.” The more I sputtered toward meltdown, the more vague she became.
Her blue eyes were bland. “Maybe I did…”
“You remember what the caller sounded like? What time of the day or night it came in? Did it come in on my line or the city desk? Did the caller say anything else?”
“Britt, I have a great many responsibilities, and message taking is not one of them.” Gretchen used the tone of an exasperated parent addressing an unruly child. “If I happened to pick up the phone and take a message, as a favor to you—”
“It was a man, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Not that I recall.” Her voice grew impatient.
“When did it come in?”
“Britt.” She looked amused and slightly annoyed. “I am much too busy for this.”
“Gretchen, who do you think this was?”
She blinked and shrugged. “Some friend of yours.”
“No, Gretchen. The Downtown Rapist.”
She reacted with a slight start, but her voice was patronizing. “Why ever would you think that, Britt?”
I inhaled a deep breath, fighting frustration. “He has written to us, remember? And you do recall our last story? On his most recent victim?” Still no comprehension. “The dark-haired computer expert?”
Gretchen scrutinized the message again. I read it aloud. “Maybe a blonde next time.” I watched the light bulb flick on. “That’s right, Gretchen. You’re a blonde, I’m a blonde.”
I took it to Fred’s office. “Think we should report this to the police?” he asked, perplexed.
“I don’t know. What do we tell them? If Gretchen had at least bothered to note the exact date and time of the call,” I said sullenly, “or if she could remember anything distinctive about him or his voice. But this,” I said, displaying the note, “gives them nothing more to go on, nothing new. It could be anybody trying to be funny or playing a sick joke. Wish I’d been here when the call came in, then we’d know. Somebody should teach that woman how to take a proper message.”
Fred waved off my pout. “That’s not her job. More important, Britt, do you think it could be a personal threat against you?”
“Probably not.” There in the light of day beneath fluorescent bulbs, high on the fifth floor in the busy newsroom with headline writers to the left, sports department jocks to the right, and security manning the lobby, this anonymous message was nothing more sinister than a scrap of paper. Although some still, small voice inside me wondered how I would feel about it when I was home alone at midnight.
But I had some pride and certainly didn’t want to acquire a crybaby reputation. I still remembered the jokes and derision directed at a reporter for the Spanish edition after he received what he thought was a telephoned threat. He had insisted that the paper send him to lie low in Puerto Rico for a few weeks and demanded Wackenhut bodyguards for a month after his return.
I still stuck to the theory that people who call are only trying to scare you. Succumb, and you have played into their hands. There are still people at the News who swear it’s a mistake to put a woman on the police beat. No point playing into their hands either.
“No big deal,” I said jauntily, and turned back toward the newsroom.
“Well, watch yourself.”
“For sure,” I said, and smiled reassuringly. But who, I wondered, is watching the rapist?
I called Harry, who had news from the crime lab. No surprise, the preliminary DNA tests on the envelope indicated that the rapist wrote the letter. Harry wasn’t enthusiastic about Marianne Rhodes going public either. “But it’s her choice,
” he said grimly.
For a moment, I felt tempted to tell him about the telephone message Gretchen took, but to what point? If the same man called again and convinced me he was the rapist and not simply a crank, then I would report it.
Ryan went to the cafeteria for a snack, and I persuaded him to bring me back coffee. When he leaned over to place it on my desk, he stopped and sniffed loudly. Then he did it again.
“What’s that in your hair, Britt?”
“Never mind.”
“You been out on a raid with the cops again?”
I turned to look at him. “No, why?”
“Smells like marijuana,” he said softly, closing his eyes, leaning into my hair, and inhaling deeply.
“Oh, Ryan,” I snapped, pushing him away.
“No offense.” He smiled, backing off. “I like it.”
I drank my coffee and dialed Detective Orestes Diaz at the county for the results of Farrington’s postmortem. After whacking concrete with little hammers for hours, doctors had found that, like his wife eighteen years earlier, Farrington was shot in the head before being encased in cement. His death had been ruled a homicide.
The body slid down between the pillar’s steel reinforcing rods after he fell or was pushed from the catwalk. He would have remained dead center, at the heart of the column, but the rush and weight of flowing concrete had forced him between the rods and up against the inside edge of the plywood form. The detective had been right. Farrington might easily have remained missing forever.
“Sure it wasn’t suicide?”
“No gun, and believe me we looked. And he was popped in the back of the skull, just like his wife. I got a copy of the old file from the city. Detective over there did a helluva job back then. Sketches, diagrams, everything. This case was a carbon copy.”
“Think it was a coincidence, that maybe the killer wasn’t even aware of the first murder?”
Miami, It's Murder Page 17
