Miami, It's Murder

by Edna Buchanan

  I still examined the contents, shifting the sealed bag. A crumpled handkerchief—and something that made my heart catch in a painful spasm. A tiny screwtop bottle cap from a bottle of nitro pills prescribed for a heart condition. No way for a cap to tell you what’s in a bottle—unless it has a small strip of bright red tape across the top.

  “Where’s the bottle that goes with this cap?” I asked, more stricken than I had expected to be if this moment came.

  I blinked, blinded for a moment, and turned away to conceal eyes that were suddenly watery. Dan lost a daughter. I lost my dad. Now we would lose each other and he would lose everything.

  “Let’s see here.” Dr. Duffy hadn’t noticed my reaction. He was scrutinizing the inventory sheet attached to the bag. “No matching bottle was found. That cap may belong in the box with the other debris from the site, but since it was on his person, we included it here. Apparently that cap was caught in the folds of his shirt, and when the weight of the concrete shifted the body it was trapped between his chin and his shirt.”

  “Ever see anybody mark a pill bottle like this?” I said, touching the cap through the plastic, remembering the moment I first saw it, or one like it.

  “No,” Duffy said, taking the bag from my hands. “But people do all sorts of things.”

  He moved the carton and the plastic bag back into the lockup and returned. My face must have given me away.

  “Anything wrong, Britt?”

  I looked at my watch. “I’m just running late and have to make another stop before I go back to the office.”

  I drove to my next destination like a maniac on a rampage. This was it; it was real, not my imagination. This was now a matter of life and death. I speeded onto the narrow street, wheeled into a space, brakes squealing. Why? I thought. How could he?

  She was home as I had hoped, opening the door a crack.

  “Hi,” I said, my voice infused with a hearty, overly familiar ring. “Mrs. Creech. Ruby. You remember me, Britt Montero. I was here the day your husband passed away. I need to talk to you.”

  “I have a telephone,” she said coldly.

  “I just need a minute of your time. It’s important to both of us.”

  My voice sounded taut as I tried to stay calm.

  “What?”

  “It’s about your husband’s death.”

  “I am not discussing that,” she said, her tone even chillier.

  “It’s not what you think. Just one minute.”

  The door closed, the safety chain rattled, then it reopened. She stared at me, then stepped back. “I’m probably gonna regret this,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said. She wore dark slacks and a T-shirt, much like the first time I had met her, but she had added a few pounds and some bright lipstick. She had had her hair done and her roots touched up. “You look good,” I said, trying to go slow. “How are you doing?”

  There were several packed cartons and boxes on the floor.

  “You moving?”

  She nodded. “Wouldn’t you?”

  She planned to put the house on the market, she said, and spend some time with a sister in Sarasota. I told her I heard it was wonderful there, she’d enjoy it. Good place for a fresh start, I thought.

  “Why’d you come?” she said.

  I took a deep breath. “Remember the old murder investigation in the death of your niece?”

  She nodded, staring solemnly at the floor as she sat down at the same kitchen table where we had first talked.

  “I know you hate to see that come up again.” I took the seat across from her.

  “What do you mean, come up again?” she said bitterly, raising her eyes. “It never went away. It was with us every day.”

  “Do you remember the detective in the case, the man who suspected your husband?”

  “Detective Flood was his name. Who could forget him? I was surprised he didn’t show up here like the rest of ’em, to gloat, the day I found Emerson … the day you were here.”

  “He had retired by then.”

  “Since when?” she said disbelievingly.

  “He retired last spring.”

  “Retired?” she said loudly. “Retired?” Her expression was incredulous. “That old son of a bitch! Then why in hell was he tormenting us by hanging around here if he wasn’t even on the goddamned police force anymore? I never knew he retired.”

  “You mean you’d seen him lately?” I asked, a sense of dread growing in the pit of my stomach.

  She stood up, bony fists clenched. “Used to be just once a year or so, sometimes on the anniversary of the case, sometimes on holidays, Christmas or Easter. Whenever he had nothing better to do, I guess. Emerson would refuse to talk to him and Flood would say he just wanted us to know he still had the case. He always left his card and said if either of us had anything to tell him, we should call. We’d always fight for weeks every time he’d been here.”

  “When was the last time he came?”

  “It was two days before Emerson died.” She paced the small room, three steps from the stove to the sink, three steps back. “But now he was up to something new. I went out to catch a bus that morning, got on, and as I took a seat and it started to roll, I saw him halfway down the block, parked across the street facing this direction, watching the house.

  “I thought he’d come by, but he didn’t. I mentioned it to my husband, and we both saw him the next day. We just ignored him, like we didn’t know he was out there. Figured he was trying something new, trying to gaslight us, some psychological shit to put pressure on.”

  “Was that the last time you saw him?”

  “No, he was there the day it happened. I went out that morning and saw him again, slouched down in his car, a dark blue Buick Riviera parked across the street. He was gone when I got back. When I found my husband I thought it had worked. I thought he was finally pushed too far and had killed himself. That was before they explained all that sex stuff.” She looked sheepish. “And you say the son of a bitch was retired and was doing this on his own time? He had no right. Why?” Her voice cooled, trailing off wearily as she sat down again at the table.

  “I think I know. Another thing,” I said. “That lacy red teddy. It was yours, wasn’t it?”

  She smiled sadly. “Yes. Don’t know why I bought it. We’d been like strangers for so long after everything that happened. It just seemed, if we were going to live out our lives together, that maybe—”

  I told her to watch the paper, that I would be writing a story about Dan Flood.

  “Somebody should,” she said. “The man is going too far.”

  “You have no idea,” I said sadly.

  At the door I turned.

  “One more thing. Do you think your husband killed Darlene?”

  The light faded from her eyes and her voice was flat. “No doubt about it.”

  It was time to fill in an editor.

  I could go on investigating for weeks, trying to unearth more evidence, but there was no time—and that was a job for the cops anyway. My job was to do what I always do, write the story, like Lottie said. It had always seemed so simple before. An interview with Dan was inevitable now. Would he hate me? Doing nothing was out of the question. He had to be stopped. I had caught on; others would too. Homicide detectives are not stupid. But it had to be before anybody else, including Dan, was hurt.

  But he is a sick man, I thought, who gave most of his life to the city. Now that life could end behind bars. He could die in jail.

  I swallowed hard and walked into the newsroom. When Fred was free and off the telephone I stepped into his office. “I have reason to think,” I said carefully, “that a dying detective, respected and retired from city homicide, has become a vigilante seeking street justice and has murdered at least three suspects that he believes beat the system.”

  Fred whistled and looked impressed. “Helluva story. Can you prove it?”

  No turning back.
“I’m still reporting, but I have enough to write and let readers draw their own conclusions.”

  At the news meeting later it was agreed that if I could produce it, the story would run Sunday—after Mark vetted it, of course.

  “Think he’ll admit to anything, Britt?” Fred asked doubtfully.

  “Despite what’s he done, he’s an honest man who never lied to me. I think he feels justified. The worst he might do would be to lose his temper and refuse to talk to me at all.”

  “Even if he denies everything, which is likely, his involvement in all those cases makes a hell of a story.” Fred nodded. “Think we can arrange a picture of that bottle cap? Think anybody else has seen how he marks them?”

  “Probably everybody who knows him. I’ll try to interview him in the morning.”

  I made my last two calls from home that night.

  McDonald was working late, compiling statistics to use in the new budget proposal for homicide. The best cops are promoted and don’t do police work anymore, I thought. He sounded businesslike, his professional mode. “I just have one question,” I said.

  “Sure, Britt.”

  “How did Dan react when you told him about Farrington?”

  “What are you talking about?” He sounded genuinely bewildered.

  “Farrington, the contractor who got cemented into a pillar out at the new shopping center.”

  “That wasn’t our case. It’s the county’s.”

  “I know, I know,” I said impatiently. “But you heard about it, knew he was the suspect in Dan Flood’s old case, and called to tell him, right?”

  “I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Britt. I’ve been meaning to call Dan but, remember, I told you: I haven’t spoken to the man in weeks and definitely not about some county case.”

  “Oh. Guess I was mistaken. Thanks, McDonald.”

  Dan answered on the first ring. He sounded glad to hear from me. “I need to see you.”

  “Any time, Britt. Lunch on your day off?”

  “No, I’d like to make an appointment to interview you, tomorrow.” Did my voice reveal the guilt I felt?

  He paused. “Since when do you need an appointment to see me?”

  “I wanted to make sure you were available.”

  “Like I said, any time. What kind of interview?”

  “About your old cases. Can I come to your house? Ten o’clock?”

  “Okay with me.” He sounded puzzled, or was it cautious? “Hope you don’t shock easy.”

  “Why would I be shocked?” My throat felt dry.

  “My pad ain’t exactly House and Garden, you know.”

  “Nothing should shock us anymore. Remember, you told me that once.”

  “Right.”

  I slept poorly, anticipating our meeting. Did Dan suspect? Was he able to rest? Was Hector Ugalde enjoying his nights in jail? Finally it had to be time to get up. Dragging myself into a sitting position, I stared in disbelief at my digital clock. Four A.M. Damn, I thought, rubbing my eyes, I got more rest when the rapist was still on the prowl.

  Chapter 20

  I dressed carefully the next morning, as though for a date. It was a date of sorts; Dan was my old friend.

  I wore my favorite blue blazer. I still wore my Aunt Odalys’s beads and pinned the resguardo to my underwear. Maybe they had become a habit. Maybe I wanted my luck to last.

  I left the gun behind.

  In all the years I had known Dan, I had never visited him at home. I parked in front of the pretty little house precisely at ten. It was a bit neglected perhaps, but a happy family had obviously lived there and loved it. An overhang near the front door protected an area with metal tracks on the ground to accommodate bicycles. Summer heat had decimated once-well-kept flower beds. The hedges looked overgrown. A huge ficus was spreading its branches dangerously close to the roof, and an avocado tree needed pruning.

  His car, the Buick, was in the drive.

  I stared morosely at it for a moment, then rang the doorbell.

  He opened the door, blinking in the sunlight. The belt of his sports slacks looked loose, and he wore house slippers. His eyes looked puffy, and when we hugged, his body felt frail and breakable in my arms, so different from the strapping bear of a man he had been.

  “Knew you’d be right on time,” he said, smiling broadly. “Reporters always show up on time, one of the things I learned from you.”

  He stepped back, hands on my shoulders, peering into my eyes, then touched his grizzled fist gently to my chin.

  “You look okay, kid. You had me worried there, with that freak running around.”

  The living room was comfortable with natural-colored furniture, bookcases, and now-empty planters. An overflow of old newspapers rose from a chair, but otherwise everything looked neat.

  “Take off your jacket and stay awhile. Can I get you anything?” He looked like the anxious host. “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks, unless you’re having some.”

  “Sure thing, we can sit here.” He indicated the dining room table and slowly padded into the kitchen. He saw me notice his floppy slippers and looked embarrassed.

  “My ankles and my feet were swollen this morning, can’t even get my shoes on. How do ya like that? Must be my medication.”

  I nodded. “So how is retirement?”

  He set a brimming mug in front of me and another in front of his chair. “I shoulda picked up some donuts or something.”

  “No, thanks, I had breakfast.”

  “So,” he said. “Didn’t know which cases you were interested in so I got out the old scrapbooks.” Half a dozen were stacked on a footstool next to a chair. “The wife and daughter kept ’em,” he said, looking sheepish. “Clipped out every newspaper story that mentioned my name and some that didn’t. All the old cases. The last one’s not quite up to date. My last year on the job.” He sat down heavily and gazed fondly at me. I felt ashamed and devious. This was horrible, but I had to go through with it.

  I placed my tiny tape recorder next to the sugar bowl and pressed the record button. “Do you mind?”

  He shook his head, eyes searching mine. “Where were we?”

  “Retirement,” I said brightly, and sipped my coffee.

  “Well,” he said, without hesitation, “it’s like cutting an umbilical cord. All of a sudden you’re on your own, not a part of mother city anymore. Never occurred to me all those years, but it was a cozy feeling to be with the department, with insurance, retirement, everything taken care of for you. Like a spoiled kid who leaves home, you have to sink or swim on your own. You feel a little apprehensive about leaving the family that took care of you for thirty years.” He grinned. “That’s not for publication. I wouldn’t admit that to anybody but you.”

  Reaching behind him for an ashtray, he took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook one loose. “You mind?”

  “Only on your account.”

  “Speaking of retirement: you know, Irene and me, we had it all planned out.” He lit up, his hand shaky, and took the first puff, exhaling a thin stream of smoke through his nostrils. “We were thinking ahead. Bought a piece of property up in the mountains, in Carolina. Were gonna build the year before I retired. The plans are still around here someplace. It was gonna have a separate bedroom and bath for the kid when she came to visit.” He sniffed and drank his coffee. “Things never turn out the way you plan.”

  “Seems that way,” I said softly.

  “Gotta tell ya, I miss the job. Catching bad guys, arresting people, catching couples making love at three A.M. in the woods, seeing all this flesh jumping around in a car in the dark.”

  He grinned wickedly.

  “It was a good run. We closed a lotta good cases. Remember that Jane Doe that went unidentified for six months, we finally made her and nailed the boyfriend up in Georgia?”

  “The one where you finally matched the dead woman’s fingerpri
nt to one on an employment application?”

  “That’s it!” His eyes lit up. “He’d told her family she’d met some guy and run off on him in Miami.”

  “Great case. He still in jail?”

  “Should be. He got the twenty-five-year mandatory minimum. That one’s in there with the others.” He gestured toward the scrapbooks as memory kicked in. “You know, it always bugged me that we never solved the Susan Stratford case. That one happened around the same time.”

  “The one where the girl’s car was abandoned in the shopping center parking lot and she was found miles away, stabbed to death in a woods?”

  “Right. Had to be a chance encounter, somebody she ran into shopping that day. Remember, she bought a shirt for her dad?”

  “His birthday.”

  “Your memory is as good as mine.” He sighed regretfully and shook his head. “Always thought we could have solved that one. Had to be something we missed. It disturbed me a lot, Britt.” He massaged the loose folds of skin on one side of his face with his fingers. “I often felt I let those victims down. I was supposed to do my thing. Maybe I should have done it better. I did what I could, but a lot of times the courts or the circumstances just weren’t there.” He looked wistful.

  “You gave it your best shot. Nobody worked harder than you,” I said. “You’re not responsible for the system. It leaves a lot to be desired, but it’s all we’ve got.”

  His eyes hinted at thoughts unspoken. “The more I look back on the injustice, the wounds and the scars, the more hung up I get about the system, the department, things left undone.”

  “Sometimes you just have to leave it to God.”

  He scoffed, his smile bitter. “I didn’t vote for God. If that freaking Marielito or anybody else did something terrible to you or someone else I cared about now, I would want to kill him. I wouldn’t want to see the victim run through that meat grinder they call the system. The fairest way is to kill him and spare the victim all that crap.”

  He watched, waiting, as I stirred my coffee.

  “I never thought I’d hear you advocate street justice.”