The night was cooler than usual but it wasn’t the slight chill that kept me awake. It was Maria. A maid without a passport gets paid a free bed and food. It’s the standard salary when you work illegally. A maid with signed papers picks up a couple of hundred bucks a month. Maximum. There was only one answer. She had to have a second salary. A job she did in her free time. Florida offered a choice. Fast-food joints. All-night drugstores. Gas stations.
In the morning I would find out.
I woke just after seven, got myself some breakfast, showered, dressed, and by ten I was ready to call Coral Gables and speak to Mr. Lee. He’d know Maria’s moves. It was his job to organize them.
“Harry Lipkin,” I said.
“Good morning, sir. I trust you are well.”
“Swell. You?”
“As well as one should expect.” He paused. “And is sir wishing to speak with Mrs. Weinberger?”
“To get Maria’s work schedule,” I told him. “I need it. The nights she works. The days she works. The nights she goes out. The nights she stays home.”
“If sir would care to hold the line,” he said, “I shall check.”
I got to figure Mr. Lee. This way. He was the kind of guy who could bite into a double cream cheese bagel with lox, chicken liver, pickled herring, mayo, ketchup, and mustard and not drop any over his pants. You didn’t meet them often. Until I met Mr. Lee I hadn’t met one.
Mr. Clean Pants came back on the line. “Is sir there?”
“Pencil at the ready.”
“Will sir be making a note?”
A figure of speech, Mr. Lee. “I am listening.”
The butler cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Weinberger’s maid normally remains on duty until Mrs. Weinberger retires. This is usually between seven and seven-thirty. The exceptions are those evenings when bridge is played or during a period of religious observance.”
I started to count them out in my head.
“There’s at least one a month,” I said. “Yom Kippur. Hanukkah. Passover. Rosh Hashanah. Sukkoth … Sometimes more.”
Mr. Lee agreed. “Sir is correct. Twenty, to the best of my knowledge.”
“And Maria works every one?”
“That is how it stands. Yes, sir.”
“And Friday? The day of rest?”
“Miss Lopez has Friday afternoons to herself and a free weekend every three months.”
I added it up. A couple of hours at night and a few days. If Maria worked for someone else as well as Mrs. Weinberger it had to be the best paid part-time job in town.
“Tell me, Mr. Lee,” I asked, “does Maria stick around after she’s through work? Read a book in her room? Watch TV?”
“I have the distinct impression, sir,” he said, “that Miss Lopez goes out of the house.”
“Have you any idea where she might go?”
He’d talked enough. He had other duties. Nothing to do with me.
“Alas not, sir,” he said through a half-masked yawn. “What Miss Lopez does in her free time, sir, I consider none of my business.”
“But it is mine,” I snapped. “I am being paid to find a thief and you are going to help. Like it or not.”
He didn’t like it. But I was holding the ace. Me boss. Him slave.
“What is it that sir wishes to know?”
I made it simple. “When is Maria Lopez off next?”
He made it short. “It is this evening, I believe, sir.”
“Wasn’t so tough, was it?” I said.
There was a pause.
“Will that be all?”
“Tell Mrs. Weinberger I called,” I said. “Tell her not to worry. Tell her the case is taking shape. There’s a chink of light.”
I hung up and went through it once more. If Maria could make the tab working part-time it would take her off my list. But picking up a dollar-fifty a night for shoveling french fries while working for a woman with gold and diamonds worth millions. That would keep her on it. By midnight I’d know.
· THIRTY ·
Harry Tails Maria
I gave myself plenty of time. A good half hour before Maria hung up her apron I eased the Chevy off the main highway and parked on a sandy shoulder between two squat palms. From my spot I had a clear view of Coral Gables at the top of the incline. I would be able to keep track of Maria as she made her way from the servants’ quarters, walked the terra-cotta path, opened the iron gates, took the slip road to the main road, headed down the hill, and hit the junction a couple of hundred yards from me in my parked car. And that is exactly what Maria Lopez did.
At just after seven-thirty Mrs. Weinberger’s maid arrived at the junction. But it wasn’t the Maria Lopez I knew. Not one bit.
Maria’s skirt was very short. Mini and more. And it was cut from shiny leather. She had on knee-high black lace-up suede boots. The heels were six inches. Maybe more. She’d put on flame-red fishnet stockings and plenty of gold accessories and slung a white fox fur stole over what I guessed would be naked shoulders. And there were sunglasses with frames that covered half her face. A blond wig covered the rest. Whatever Mrs. Weinberger’s maid did on her time off she wasn’t dressed for pumping gas or grilling burgers. And she was the only person in sight.
But not for long.
A silver open-top coupe heading north accelerated past a line of five family sedans and a pickup truck and pulled up sharply across the highway from where Maria Lopez was standing. With the engine running the driver lit a cigarette and flicked the dead match into the air. He took a long pull and left the stick in his mouth. He was in a T-shirt and a fruit salad print bandana. He was around twenty. Younger even. With lightly tanned skin and the kind of cheekbones and eyes you see a lot on faces in places like Bolivia. He waited for a gap in the traffic, then he made a fast U-turn and pulled up a few feet from Maria.
Without getting out the driver opened the passenger door and Maria climbed in. She kissed the young driver on the cheek. I say a kiss but it was more a peck than a kiss. Sort of sister to brother. That kind of kiss. He didn’t look at her. She didn’t look at him. He did something to the dash and music came out. Loud music. A lot of drums. Trumpets. Hundreds of trumpets. Men singing falsetto Spanish. You have to develop a taste for that kind of music. It comes with developing a taste for food that comes in cold damp pancakes and sauces that can eat into lead.
The driver checked his rearview mirror, nodding his head in time to the tinny rock tumble beat, then swung the coupe back onto the highway to Miami.
A Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren Roadster is not an easy automobile to tail. Driven fast there isn’t a car outside a racetrack that gets close. Driven slow you might glimpse smoke from the exhaust in the distance. But the driver kept to the rules. Nothing flash. Fifty-five steady. As if he didn’t want to attract any attention to himself. Or his passenger.
He used U.S. Route 1. No turns or deviations. It was early evening traffic. Mostly people heading into Miami for the night. There was plenty to do. You could fall asleep during a concert of popular classics on the beach. Wonder why you had paid fifty bucks for an Elvis Memorial Concert or sit in an empty theater and watch another new play about AIDS.
I tailed the couple without having to use too much of my arthritic toe on the gas. I didn’t lose sight of its out-of-state license once. Since Maria had never seen my car I knew I could tag along unnoticed.
It was dark when we drove into downtown Miami and road signs for Miami International Airport mixed in with all the others. When the Dixie Highway became Brickell Avenue at SE Fourteenth Street the Mercedes edged out from the line of what was now quite slow-moving traffic and parked across from the first of a trio of five-star hotels. The car stopped outside the Atlantic Florida. Keeping my distance, I did the same.
There was a small parking lot behind some small buildings and trees across from the hotel. The Mercedes backed into the entrance and Maria got out. She and the driver spoke a few words and then the driver inched back onto Brickell Ave
nue and headed on south. I parked in the lot and followed Maria.
Keeping close to her wasn’t tough. Maria Lopez’s high heels reduced her speed to fifty feet an hour. The hundred and twenty-nine yards to the hotel took five minutes and thirty-two seconds. Give or take.
· THIRTY-ONE ·
Harry Discovers Maria’s Secret
The Atlantic Florida’s lobby is softly lit satinwood walls and peach mirrors and dark leather seats. And lots of plants in square tubs. Even an out-of-season standard room cost six hundred a week. In season a penthouse suite cost three hundred a night. The view was the same. Biscayne Bay and a row of cheaper hotels on the other side.
The place was busy but not noisy. A party of Canadians was checking in. Thirty guys in baseball caps with maple leafs on the front and bags full of fishing gear. You could tell. Three sold automobiles. Two sold fur boots and the rest sold real estate. There weren’t any Mounties.
Maria edged round them and made her way to the elevator. I followed, keeping my distance before moving to a spot by a wall outside Maria’s range of vision. The elevator emptied. Maria waited. Checked that she was alone and then got on board. I watched the numbers over the elevator door. They didn’t light until the elevator reached the penthouse. It didn’t have a number. Just the letter P.
The main lobby led into a lounge. I found a seat across from the elevator and made myself comfortable. After a short while a waiter stopped by. The name pinned to a badge on his well-pressed vest was Jerry.
“Can I bring you something, sir?” he asked.
I took the notebook out of my pocket and wrote down the license plate number of the Mercedes I’d tailed. Under it I added a phone number. I tore the page out and gave it to him.
“Call the bottom number,” I said. “And ask the guy on the other end to find out what car the top number belongs on. The guy you’ll be talking to is Victor Morrow. Tell him you are doing it for Harry Lipkin.”
Jerry looked at the piece of paper. Then at me. “Is this legal, sir?”
He paused for my reaction. There wasn’t one.
“You understand, I have to ask?” he said.
I handed Jerry a ten dollar bill.
“The guy is a cop, Jerry,” I explained. “He works in records and does this kind of thing privately from time to time. For old pals. Vic and me are old pals.”
Jerry put the bill with the page from my notebook.
“And when I have an answer, sir?” he said.
“Bring it along with a large strong java and something nice and sweet to eat. My sugar levels need a boost and my eyelids need something to stop them closing.”
Jerry was gone ten minutes. When he came back he brought the coffee, a slice of cheesecake with whipped cream, and news that the license plate and the car didn’t match. The plate belonged to a four-year-old Chrysler registered in Texas.
“Was the information of use, sir?” Jerry asked.
“Real helpful.”
Jerry smiled.
“I like to be of service,” he said and tugged the tips of his bow tie. “It makes a job worth doing and this is a swell hotel to work in. The last place I worked they only gave you one meal a day free and you had to pay to have your uniform washed.”
None of it mattered to me as much as it did to Jerry. But the phony license plate on the Mercedes mattered.
“You can do one more thing,” I said. “I got to keep an eye fixed on the elevator. There’s someone I am keeping tabs on who is spending the night here. If you see me snoring do something about it.”
“Will a nudge be enough?”
“A nudge will do fine.”
As it turned out Jerry’s nudge wasn’t needed. The mix of caffeine and adrenaline was plenty.
Just after four Maria stepped out of the elevator. She hadn’t bothered with the wig or the sunglasses. If she was wearing makeup I couldn’t see any. She crossed the lobby like she was sleepwalking and I got up and followed her into a chilly dim Miami predawn.
The Mercedes was parked where it had been the night before. The same driver was behind the wheel. Same bandana. Same T-shirt. Same license plate. Maria let herself in and the stolen auto went back the way it came.
· THIRTY-TWO ·
Harry Thinks It All Over
It was too late to go to bed and too early to get up. I was tired. I was aching in my back. Upper and lower. And the bit in the middle. Sharp pains wandered around the joints of my toes and fingers. Cramp was on its way. And what nature wasn’t doing to me I was doing to myself. The black coffee I ordered to keep me awake was still talking with my stomach acid. And worse. Worse than all of it. I was sad. The kind of sad there is no pill for. No cure for. The sad of seeing a young and beautiful life about to get wasted. I’ve seen a lot of it. Bad marriages. Bad debts. Lives that had run out of time. Maria was the latest of a long line.
I took a pill for reflux and a hot shower to calm down the muscles and a deep breath to empty out the bad air in my lungs. And I thought about Little Amy.
Little Amy was the daughter of Joe and Maureen Kelly. Joe was a musician. Maureen worked in a store. Every night Joe went to work he’d walk with Little Amy to the end of the block. He’d tell her stories on the way. Then he’d kiss her and tell her to have sweet dreams. Little Amy would wave and her father would wave back while crossing the street to the subway. One night Joe waved back and didn’t see the truck. Little Amy saw it all.
Without Joe’s salary Maureen had to work nights. She got a job in a bar. The money was good. Drunks were generous. Tips. Offers. Maureen drank more than was good for her and one day liquor killed her.
Little Amy was completely alone. No brothers. No sisters. No one. The authorities placed her in an orphanage. After a month eating cold soup and sleeping in cold rooms Little Amy packed her bag. She had large dreamy cornflower blue eyes and soft red lips. Her hair was sunlit gold and full of wild waves that broke carelessly over her pale white shoulders.
Looking for a job. Little Amy. Fourteen. Taken for twenty. Got up in high heels and silk stockings and with an instinct where to go looking. It didn’t take Little Amy long.
Her first job was to marry a retired Wall Street big shot. When not playing golf Henry Gaddis Jr. used his retirement to buy Little Amy fur coats from Bergdorf Goodman and trinkets from Tiffany. When Gaddis died Little Amy spent the six million he left her in under a year.
After the money ran out Little Amy moved to Boston and married a ninety-three-year-old widower who manufactured candy and pet food. He died. Little Amy was the sole beneficiary. Another year of throwing money around. Then she married another widower. Bradley B. Pinkerton. A long-retired something or another. Dead in a month. From what the coroner put down as natural causes. His will left her more champagne and mink.
The last of Little Amy’s widowers lived here. In the State of Florida. On Ocean Ridge. He designed yachts for playboys before he’d had enough of work. It was Frank Harris who called me.
He was a man the age I am now. Worried about some medicine he’d found hidden in a cabinet that was lethal if taken in large doses. It had not been prescribed. For him or for his wife. And you wouldn’t know if you’d taken it. Nor would anyone else. Not unless they cut you open and put your liver under a microscope.
But that wasn’t all of it. Little Amy had made a habit of spending weekends away from home. She told him it was to see an aunt who lived alone someplace. From time to time the name of the place changed slightly. When he questioned Little Amy about the different destinations she laughed it off. Blamed Frank’s hearing. Frank was worried. I told Frank I would get him some answers. It took no time. I got in my car and followed Little Orphan Amy just liked I followed Maria.
The aunt was a rock-and-roll singer with an isolated beach house on Key Largo. I gave it to Frank Harris the kindest way I knew. I told him the truth. Plain. No frills. No sentiment. When he asked where they met I gave him that too.
The last time I saw Little Amy she was still out at
Key Largo. She was on her back naked on a bed. There was a single bullet hole in her breast. Her lover was beside her. He’d taken three. Chest. Throat and temple. Frank was facedown in the pool. Blood was flowing out the side of his head.
To fill time while I waited for the cops to come and tidy up I went through Little Amy’s purse. It’s another of those habits private eyes pick up. All part of the job of making the lines and colors of a map into a place you can walk about in. Among the loose change, perfume, credit cards, sticks of lipstick, cell phone, house keys, car keys, and a crumpled Kleenex, I found a small scuff-edged black-and-white photo of a young man. It was stuffed in a side pocket along with her compact and hand mirror. He had on a band jacket and was playing a trumpet.
Then I stopped thinking about Little Amy and started working on the case Mrs. Weinberger was paying me to solve. I wound a sheet of blank paper into the Remington and typed out what I had.
Suspect: Rufus Davenport, also known as Frank Dunlop
Occupation: Chauffeur
Other Related Interests: Boxing
Motive: A large family to support
Conclusion: A big right hook to take care of the extras
Proviso: I had only seen him fight once
Suspect: Mr. Lee
Occupation: Butler
Other Related Interests: Gambling
Motive: Gambling debts
Conclusion: No gambling debts
Proviso: Lucky Lee might not be so lucky someplace other than Gulfstream
Suspect: Steve
Occupation: Gardener
Other Related Interests: Narcotics
Motive: Paying for drugs
Conclusion: Drugs paid him
Proviso: Capable of theft if he worked in the lounge and not the garden
Suspect: Amos
Occupation: Chef
Harry Lipkin, Private Eye Page 10
