Dead in Boca

by Miriam Auerbach

  “Yes ma’am,” I said. “I’ll see myself out.”

  She didn’t reply, just let out a long stream of smoke.

  I hoofed it through the apartment to the front door. Just as I reached it, I heard the sound of shattering glass followed by a blood-curdling scream.

  Chapter 3

  OH MY GOD! Miss Lil, in her inebriated state, must have crashed through the glass enclosure and fallen to her death six stories below. I rushed back to the balcony. There, I saw Miss Lil—alive and well—pick up my empty mint julep glass and hurl it against the wall as she let out another shriek.

  Okay, so she wasn’t dead. But maybe she was just a little more upset about the betrayal than she let on. Despite her denial, I suspected she’d had some feelings for the charming charlatan. And in my experience, nothing so enrages a woman as having the gift of her love chewed up, spat out, and thrown to the dogs.

  Miss Lil didn’t see me, so I turned and tiptoed back out. In the foyer, the wood panel automatically slid open before me. The elevator was waiting, doors open.

  On the way down, my reflection indicated that I was no worse for wear. The booze hadn’t had nearly the effect on me that it had on Miss Lil. Of course, I did have several inches and at least a couple dozen pounds over her diminutive frame.

  Back down in the lobby, I gave my claim check to the concierge, and he retrieved my biking gear. As he handed it to me, I palmed him a hundred from the stash in my boot. He didn’t blink an eye.

  “Thanks so much,” I said, sliding my arms into my jacket as he held it up for me. “Oh, by the way, you know Miss Lil’s companion?”

  “Yes, madam, Mr. Worthington.”

  “Yes, right. Say, did he ever leave anything with you, an umbrella, a shawl, an overcoat, anything like that?”

  “Yes, madam. When we had the cooler weather a few months back, Mr. Worthington occasionally wore a trench coat that he left with me.”

  “I see. I don’t suppose you happened to notice who the tailor was?”

  “Why yes, madam, I did.”

  Of course he did. Servants are mighty damn observant.

  “The label was from Mr. Levine’s shop.”

  Needless to say, the finest couturier in town. I’d be paying him a call to see if he had any info that could help me track Worthington down.

  “Indeed? And, uh . . .” I looked at his nametag, “Mr. Diaz, was Mr. Worthington a good tipper?”

  “Oh yes, madam. He once tipped me five hundred dollars.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, madam. Between you and me, he told me he got real lucky over at the Hard Rock.”

  “No kidding.”

  The Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Hollywood, a short drive from Boca, was the ultimate racial revenge. The Seminole Indian Tribe, once massacred by the white man, was now South Florida’s wealthiest ethnic group, profiting off its one-time oppressor’s greed and gullibility. Like that of our boy, evidently.

  “You’ve been most gracious, Mr. Diaz,” I said as I headed for the door.

  “Um, madam?”

  “Not to worry, Mr. Diaz. This is strictly between us.”

  “Thank you, madam. Have a good evening.”

  Outside, I slipped the valet another bill from the stash and thanked him for keeping an eye on my bike.

  “By the way, uh . . . Sergio, what kind of Jag did Miss Lil’s companion drive?”

  “A 2012 XJ, ma’am.”

  “Leased out of Fort Lauderdale or West Palm?” Those were the two dealerships closest to Boca. Both invariably had their names discreetly affixed to their cars’ trunks or license plate frames.

  “Fort Lauderdale, ma’am.”

  Another lead to follow. “Thank you, Sergio. Have a great evening.”

  “You too, ma’am.”

  Okay, so maybe I’m showing off a little with the car stuff. I didn’t know for sure Worthington drove a Jag, but it was a good bet that it was either that, a Benz, or a Lexus. If this were Palm Beach, I would have said a Rolls or a Bentley. But this is Boca, just a notch lower on the status scale. And that also means that wheels here are leased, not owned.

  Now, I don’t always use monetary incentives (okay, bribes) in my investigations, but as I’ve indicated, I was not particularly simpatico with Junior, so I had no incentive to minimize his outlay. In fact, I considered the payments to be a fairly just redistribution of wealth. I guess I’m just a robbin’ hood.

  I put on the rest of my gear, fired up the Hog, and rode off. As long as I was out on the beach, which is how we Floridians refer to the barrier islands that make up the coastline, I decided to pay a visit to my friend Enrique, chief of security at the Boca Beach Hilton.

  I found him in his situation room, a windowless, ground-level cell filled wall to wall, floor to ceiling with video monitors receiving transmissions from cameras covering every hallway, entranceway, and common area of the building. Enrique sat with his back to me, surveying his domain. I recognized him by his slim build and his shiny, jet black, close-cropped hair.

  “Come in, Harriet,” he said without turning. Of course he’d seen me coming. He swiveled in his chair and rose to greet me.

  I knew to expect a right cheek kiss and positioned myself accordingly. South Florida greeting customs are so confusing. With so many cultures here, you never know if you’re getting a mere nod of acknowledgment, a handshake, a hug, a hand kiss, or a right, left, right-left, left-right, right-left-right, or left-right-left cheek kiss. It’s enough to keep you at home to avoid collisions.

  Enrique, as always, was elegantly attired, in a gray pinstripe suit, black shirt, and white tie. An earpiece snaked up from the back of his collar into his left ear, which sported a diamond stud. He had recently taken to wearing glasses, more for vanity than vision, I think, as they added a distinguished air to his dandyish flair.

  We sat down and exchanged war stories. His day had been spent dealing with a guest who had claimed the housekeeping staff had stolen her emerald ring. As the woman was carrying on, threatening to sue everyone in sight, Enrique noticed her Yorkshire terrier running in circles and pawing at its belly. He told the woman he was going to take the dog with him to interrogate the staff, since it would likely recognize the thief, as it had been in the room at the time of the crime. The woman agreed.

  Instead, Enrique took the dog to the nearest X-ray machine, which happened to be at the security checkpoint in City Hall. Enrique’s buddies there ran the dog through on the conveyor belt and Enrique saw what he was looking for. Back at the hotel, he got a slice of roast beef from the kitchen and an Ex-Lax from the gift shop. He placed the latter inside the former, fed the combo to the dog, and instructed one of his staff to take the dog out. An hour later, the ring was recovered.

  Enrique returned both dog and ring to their owner, sparing her the dirty details. She showered him with hugs and kisses and offered him a job as vice president of loss prevention for her husband’s national chain of discount stores, headquartered in Buffalo, New York. Enrique graciously declined. I wonder why.

  Not even trying to top that one, I told Enrique about the Castellano case.

  “Even though Loverboy may be in South America right now,” I concluded, “he’ll be back. And he’ll need to stay in a different upscale hotel. So can you do me a favor? Keep an eye on the guest register, and if a guy with three WASP names followed by Roman numerals checks in, let me know, will you?”

  “Anything for you, you know that,” he replied.

  “Thanks, bud. So, how’s Chuck?” I asked, referring to Enrique’s spouse, who was also my motorcycle mechanic.

  “He’s just great. In fact, he’s coming over in a bit. Why don’t you stay a while and join us? We’ve got Friday night entertainment—the Holy Rollers are going to be singing poolside. Look, here they come n
ow.”

  He pointed at one of the video monitors. Five black men in business attire, carrying biking gear and garment bags, were coming through the hotel’s revolving door. They constituted the Holy Rollers Motorcycle Club and Gospel Choir, a troupe of Hog-riding, hymn-singing drag queens. I’d met them a couple months before at Enrique and Chuck’s wedding, where they had served as the musicians and I had served as Best Human. Yes, the wedding where the officiant was slain. In fact, one of the Rollers, Trey Harrison, a local judge, had been arrested for the murder, and the others had hired me to exonerate him, which, after due investigation, I did.

  “Thanks, Enrique, but I can’t stay. You guys have a good time.”

  “What, you got a hot date with the Hebrew Hunk?”

  “No, I don’t have a hot date. I mean, I don’t have any date. I mean . . .”

  “So . . . you’re going to tell me you need your alone time.”

  “Well, yeah. You got a problem with that?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Tough.”

  Enrique was forever trying to change my diehard Dirty Harriet ways. Dirty Harry was a loner, and so am I. I like it that way. It keeps me out of trouble, like marrying someone I might have to shoot sometime down the road.

  “Fine, then,” Enrique said.

  “Fine. See ya. Give Chuck a hug for me.”

  “Why should I? Give it to him in person.”

  “Oh, give me a break. I’m outta here. I’ll say hi to the guys, uh, ladies, on my way out.”

  “Fine. You do that.”

  “Where do I find them?”

  “Suite 410 is their dressing room.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I took the elevator to the fourth floor, walked down the hall to 410, and knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” a voice inquired from within.

  “Harriet Horowitz.”

  The door swung open.

  “Darling!”

  “Baby Girl!”

  “Honey Child!”

  “Homegirl!”

  “Sweet pea!”

  A bunch of hands grabbed me and pulled me inside. I was lifted off my feet and passed around for a series of bear hugs. When I was finally set down, I looked around.

  The Rollers were midway into their transformations from professional men to professed divas. Each one was attired in a disconcerting jumble of male and female apparel. Boxers intermingled with bustiers, wife beaters with wigs, ties with thigh-highs. Laurence Williams, dentist by day, was morphing into Cherise Jubilee; Richard Johnson, accountant, into Virginia Hamm; Herbert Graham, wine importer, into Keisha La Reigne; James Carmichael, teacher, into Lady Fingers, and Trey Harrison, judge, into Honey du Mellon.

  “It’s great to see you, Harriet,” Laurence/Cherise said. “You’re staying for the show, aren’t you?”

  “No, sorry guys, uh, ladies. I have to go. I just dropped by to say hi.”

  This was met with a chorus of protests, which evolved into an a cappella rendition of Thelma Houston’s “Don’t Leave Me This Way.” When they were done, I said, “I’m touched, ladies. Break a leg. I’ll be seeing ya.”

  There was another round of hugs, and Trey/Honey escorted me to the door. He was quite a sight, wearing a bronze, floor length gown and holding a honey-colored bouffant wig in his hands. As we stepped into the hall and the door swung shut behind us, he said, “Harriet, you know I’m forever in your debt for clearing me of that murder rap. I could be in the big house now, but instead I’m back on the bench. But I decided to go to civil court instead of criminal this time. Being on the other side of the prison bars makes you reconsider some things.”

  I could relate to that. The days I’d spent in the slammer after offing my husband, before my charges were dropped, had given me plenty of time to reassess my Boca Babe lifestyle. And to decide to never go back.

  “Yeah, I read that your judicial privileges were restored,” I said. A recent article on the case in the local paper had recounted Trey’s life story, from his humble beginnings in Miami’s Overtown, a once-vibrant but now impoverished African-American neighborhood, to how he’d put himself and his younger sister through college working on the Miami River loading docks, to his ultimate rise to become one of the state’s most respected jurists. “Congratulations.”

  “It’s only because of you,” he said, putting on his wig. “If there’s ever anything you need, just say the word.”

  “Thanks, Trey, uh, Honey. Take care.” I gave him a quick hug, then he turned and twisted the door handle. It was locked.

  “Darn,” he said, “I left the key in my pants in there.” He raised his arm to knock on the door. I had no desire to get caught up in the pandemonium in there again, so I hoofed it.

  At last I headed home. I craved my solitude. I got that as soon as I reached the western edge of town and rode on into the wilderness. The road out here was nearly deserted, lined on both sides with sawgrass and canals. With a twist of my wrist, I opened up the throttle and leaned into the wind. I swear my heart was beating in time with the rhythm of the Hog. Everything ceased to exist but the rumble below and the road ahead. I was in total control. And nothing was controlling me.

  Nature is where I choose to make my home. A place beyond this road, beyond rules: the Everglades, the primordial swamp that’s holding out against human encroachment from both sides. To reach my home, I have to take my customized airboat, designed to carry me beyond land’s end.

  I pulled up to the small wooden pier where I keep the boat docked and turned off the Hog’s ignition. Removing my helmet, I reveled for a moment in the relative silence. I love the roar of my bike, but I love the sounds of nature, too—the wind whooshing through the tall marsh grasses, the wading birds calling across the wide-open expanse.

  The boat is a large, former tourist boat retrofitted to accommodate my Hog. I pulled down the metal loading ramp near the boat’s bow and rolled the Harley up then tied it down with customized straps. Once aboard, I retracted the ramp then put noise-cancelling headphones over my ears. The roar of a Hog was one thing, that of an airboat’s huge, rear-mounted fan quite another; it required hearing protection. I climbed into the pilot’s seat underneath a blue canvas canopy, started the engine, engaged the gear, and headed west.

  I arrived at my elevated log cabin just as the sun was going down. The little place is self-sufficient, with its own generator and waste treatment system. No land line, no computer, no air conditioning. I haul in gasoline, food, and water once a week, and I’m set.

  I came here to be reborn following my previous incarnation as a Boca Babe. The rebirth continues. I even have a birthing coach: my neighbor, Lana the gator. She’s six feet long with a ridged back and tail, beady eyes, and a mouth on her like you wouldn’t believe. I sit on my porch nightly while she mouths off, telling me where to go and where to get off. I’d never put up with this from a human being, but I make an allowance for an alligator.

  Tonight was no different. I tied the airboat to the porch, went in, took off my boots, and came back out with a glass of Hennessy. Pretty soon I spotted a snout emerging from the mire.

  “Hey,” I said by way of greeting.

  Lana emitted a grunt that I took to mean What’s cookin’?

  I gave her the rundown on the runaway Romeo.

  “No big,” I summed up. “I’ve already laid the groundwork. I’ll have Thurman Merrill Worthless the Third bagged in no time.”

  Lana raised her eyes above water and looked at me.

  ‘No big’ is nothin’ but big talk, she seemed to convey, then went back under.

  What did I tell you? Big mouth.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I made coffee and turned on my portable, battery-powered radio (old but reliable out here in the swamp) to check th
e weather. Most summer days in South Florida are the same: hot, humid, and rainy. But summer is hurricane season, and that’s serious shit. So I checked every morning to see if anything was brewing.

  It was.

  “A tropical depression has formed off the west coast of Africa,” the announcer said. “We will be tracking this development carefully to determine whether it poses any danger to the U.S. coast and particularly Florida. If this system develops into a storm, it will take several days to cross the Atlantic. So now is the time to prepare. Remember that scientists have predicted a significant increase in hurricane activity due to global warming. Stay tuned to this station for further updates.”

  Great. I was prepared. I had nothing to worry about. I had shutters for my cabin and enough food and water to last a couple weeks. The problem was the rest of the South Florida population. If this thing did develop into a storm, the place would go nuts. Everybody would be trying to do in one day what they should have done weeks ago. The streets would be jammed, and the lines at grocery stores, hardware stores, and gas stations would go on for miles.

  “In other news,” the announcer continued, “Father Kowalski of Our Lady of the Fairways church in Boca Raton has been arrested on charges of extortion in connection with exorcism. According to parishioners, the priest threatened that if they didn’t pay up, they would be repossessed.

  “And in our final news this morning, Boca Raton police are investigating the death of local developer Frank Castellano, Jr. Castellano’s body was found early this morning by the construction crew at his latest project, the Castle Commons shopping and dining complex in Boca. The body had apparently been bulldozed under several feet of rubble. Police suspect foul play.”

  Chapter 4

  ALL THOUGHTS OF a hurricane fled my mind. My client had been knocked off.

  This wasn’t in the contract. What was I supposed to do now?

  I went out to the porch, sank into my rocking chair, and put my head in my hands. I sat there, immobilized, for a few minutes. Death, no matter whose—even my husband’s, by my own hand—was always so unfathomable. One day you were talking to someone, the next day—or the next second—they were gone. What had been their last thought? How had they faced the unknown? And the biggest mystery of all—where did they go?