Margin of Error

by Edna Buchanan

  Westfell and I wandered down to the nearly deserted cafeteria and sipped coffee at a table with view. Miami Beach sparkled against the darkening sky across the bay.

  “So, how does this pace, this job, affect your personal life?”

  I usually ask the questions. This was unnatural. “The beat is more a lifestyle than a job,” I said reluctantly. “Luckily, I don’t have a husband or kids to worry about. Haven’t been married.”

  “Lucky you,” he said.

  “Came close right out of college. But he hated Miami and this is my home. I love it here.” I thought of Kendall McDonald. “There’s been another relationship, on and off for a couple of years, mostly off. Our jobs usually conflict.” Time to turn this conversation around. “You’ve been married twice.” I had done my homework too.

  “Yep.” He leaned back in his chair, a Styrofoam coffee cup almost lost in his big fist. “My first wife, Renee, and I met in college, at a Nature Conservancy meeting.”

  “You always planned to be a actor?”

  “Hell, no.” He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “I was at Yale, planning on a law degree. Film crew showed up one day at the gym where I worked out. Shooting a commercial, asked me to audition for a part. Did it on a dare, landed the job, the money was good. Next thing I knew, I was in show biz.”

  “What is Renee doing now?”

  “Exactly what she always said she would. She stuck to her original goals. She’s a protection ecologist working to preserve the rain forest and imperiled habitats in Brazil.”

  “What happened? Why didn’t you two work out?”

  He sighed. “She didn’t want to live in Hollywood. I didn’t want to live in the rain forest. I’m allergic to bee stings and mosquito bites. Tough on my kids. Spend as much time as I can with them. They’re great, thanks to their mother. Brendan is fourteen, Shelley, twelve.”

  “And what about the supermodel?”

  “Wife number two. A mistake. A bad one.”

  Nostalgic for the first wife, bitter at the second. Probably too recent, I thought.

  “An ambitious woman,” he went on, “a very ambitious woman. She wanted to be a movie star, and Lexie always gets exactly what she wants.” He lit a cigarette, looked for an ashtray, then glanced around furtively.

  “This another no smoking zone?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But who’s gonna bust a superhero, the only man who can save the world?”

  He lit up. Thick, curling lashes veiled his black eyes. There should be laws against men being that beautiful. He took a deep drag and exhaled, regarding me from behind the blue-gray smoke. “This time it’s just South Florida and the Caribbean.”

  I drove him back to his hotel but declined his invitation to dinner. He did not have to feed me for showing him around.

  “‘Bye,” I said, as he leaned in the passenger window to say good night.

  “What time tomorrow?”

  My jaw must have dropped. “You want to do this again?”

  He seemed startled. “Sure. I should try to see as much as I can. We don’t start shooting for a few days. I got a lot out of just seeing you work this afternoon.”

  Doormen watched. Water spouted from landscaped fountains. A stretch limo rolled up behind my T-Bird.

  “I bet,” I said. “Will Marianne Zipper always remember this as the day her husband was shot or the day she got your autograph?”

  He shrugged. “Britt Montero.” The words rolled slowly off his tongue. “One thing I learned today—the world is a more interesting place with you out there in it.”

  He turned and walked into the lobby alone.

  3

  Half listening to the scanner, I hummed to the music from the car stereo as I drove home. Florida highway patrolmen on the police radio in rural South Dade were whooping it up, playing rodeo as they tried to corral a bull roaming loose on the Turnpike. Toto sang on the stereo about Africa, and all around me the night was star-studded and bejeweled. As I drove east across the MacArthur Causeway, a quarter moon floated near the Gemini Twins to the northeast, and to the south a sparkling cruise ship sailed majestically through Government Cut, the main shipping channel, carrying a thousand strangers toward open sea and a journey of infinite possibility.

  The red light flashed furiously on my message machine. Six calls, three from Lottie.

  I popped a frozen eggplant parmigiana in the oven, took Bitsy for a quick walk, then returned her calls.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded. “What happened? God almighty, tell me everything. Don’t leave nothing out. Is he brokenhearted? Is he still in love with Lexie Duran?”

  “I don’t think so. From what I saw, I don’t think he’s comfortable sharing the same solar system with her.”

  When Lottie heard I had declined the star’s dinner invitation, she became absolutely apoplectic.

  “He didn’t mean it,” I assured her. “He was trying to be polite. He doesn’t like reporters. I wasn’t dressed for it. I had to come home and take the dog out. I—”

  “Sure, sure, sure. And you had to open your mail, wash your hair, and change your oil. Hell all Friday, Britt, you can spit out ten thousand and one reasons not to have fun. You are more stubborn than a dead mule. You’ve gotta get your act back together. Tonight coulda been the romantic highlight of your memoirs!”

  “Get real, Lottie, the man dates movie stars and supermodels.”

  “Surgically altered actresses and anorexic ice maidens. You are probably the first genuine red-blooded woman he’s seen in years. He’s hot.”

  “He seems more intelligent than I expected. Did you know he went to law school at Yale?” The oven timer signaled that my meal was ready. I poured a glass of red wine, the phone still to my ear. “He did say something really cool.” I repeated his final words to me.

  She paused. “Sounds like something I’ve heard before.”

  “Sounded original to me.”

  “So what is this dinner for one?”

  “Mrs. Paul’s.”

  She groaned. “At worst, you woulda had the gourmet meal of a lifetime. At best you woulda had the night of a lifetime.”

  “If he asks again,” I said slowly, “maybe I will. He really sounded serious about researching his role. He’s coming back.”

  “Thank you, Jesus,” Lottie said.

  “Next time you go to Blockbuster,” I said, “could you rent Island of the Dead for me? It was way weird, out at the scene. The crowd, even the TV reporters, acted as though Westfell being there was big time, more dramatic and newsworthy than a real live shootout.”

  I did not dream at all that night. A blessing.

  Gloria paged me, a message from Lance Westfell next morning.

  I called the number. “Margin Production.” The woman had an English accent and an attitude, decidedly cool and distant. “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  She warmed up and put me right through when I told her.

  “Got tied up with some business here and went out to look at a house,” he said, speaking with the casual warmth of an old friend. “I’m gonna lease it. It’s great. Where are you?”

  “Miami police headquarters,” I said.

  “Any news?”

  “Nothing huge.”

  “Good, I didn’t want to miss anything. I’ll try to break outa here and catch you later.”

  “Sure. The office can always reach me.”

  “Guess what?” he added, sounding pleased. “The County Commissioners want to give me the key to the county at their next meeting.”

  “Last person they gave it to is still a fugitive. They’re not too discerning.”

  “True?”

  “I didn’t make it up.”

  “You know how to hurt a guy.”

  “That’s life.”

  “Save the story. Later.”

  He hung up. I had the distinct impression that the only place I would see him again was on t
he silver screen.

  I found Detective Bliss at his desk in the homicide office. He was wearing his brown suit. He had no new leads in the murder of Randall Fairborn, the young security guard. At homicide I was always on the alert for a possible Kendall McDonald sighting. My inquiring eyes wandered toward his office. It looked empty.

  “One possible witness called in after your story in the paper,” Bliss was saying. “She sounded credible, at first.”

  “What changed your mind?” I sat in the chair next to his desk and balanced my notebook on my knee.

  “She offered to come down and try to make an ID from mug shots, but couldn’t make it this afternoon because she’s lunching with the Virgin Mary. The two of them apparently have regular tête-à-têtes.”

  “Whoops. Sorry about that. What about the nine-one-one caller?”

  “Male voice. Could be a witness. Called it in at five-twelve A.M. Said”—Bliss paused to consult his notes—“‘Better send somebody over to the Metrorail station at the government center.’ The operator asks why, and he says, ‘Somebody just took a bullet. They shot him, and I think he’s gonna die. Better send somebody.’ That’s when he hung up.”

  I leaned forward, as though something more could be discerned from staring at his notes. “Sounds like he saw the victim, knew it was serious. You think ‘they’ is a figure of speech or he really saw more than one?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “What did he sound like? Young? Old? Black? White?”

  “No accent. No panic. Very matter-of-fact. Doesn’t sound like he’s disguising his voice. Possibly white male, between thirty-five and fifty.”

  “Think it might be the killer playing games?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “I’ll mention in my follow-up that you’d like to talk to the caller.”

  “Do what you can, appreciate it.”

  “Did they print the phone?”

  “Yeah, got lots of stuff, mostly smudges and smears. You realize how many people handle it every day? Even if we make a match, all he’s gotta say is that he used that pay phone sometime recently. But the lab is working it.”

  “What about the victim?”

  “Didn’t appear to have any alcohol or drugs aboard, according to prelim lab reports. Clean-cut. No record. On Apollo’s payroll since September. Punctual, reliable, no apparent problems or incidents on or off the job. Talked to next of kin this morning. The mother. She’s in town, plans to take her boy back home to Georgia.”

  I drove to Randall W. Fairborn’s apartment. The stucco two-story building, a former motel, had long ago converted to efficiencies. The courtyard had a straggly palm tree and resounded with the sounds of noisy children at play. How, I wondered, did Randall Fairborn ever manage to sleep after working all night? His neighbors obviously spent a great deal of time sitting outside their crowded rooms. Milk crates and mismatched chairs, some ragged, stood outside each door.

  I found Fairborn’s name on the mailbox, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the peeling yellow door to apartment 7-G. Dread dried my mouth. Parents who lose a child to violence are never, ever the same again. Some react with rage and hostility, slamming doors, calling the cops, or attacking strangers who dare to intrude. Others are far too fragile to speak with an outsider. Only a messenger, I always pray that they seize this moment to tell their story, send a message, and perhaps even set into motion the events that will lead to justice. Resolution is so rare.

  I steeled my heart, took a deep breath, and knocked again.

  A stocky woman in her fifties cracked open the door. She wore glasses, a simple dark blue suit, and white blouse and was clutching a Bible. Her skin color was darker than her son’s. She had been weeping.

  “Mrs. Fairborn? My name is Britt Montero.” I handed her my business card. “I work for the Miami News. I wanted to talk to you about your son.”

  She held the card gingerly as though it were something unusual and delicate, studied it through her bifocals, then lifted her eyes to mine for a long moment. Hers were swollen, red veins crisscrossing the whites. They already wore the look of irrevocable loss.

  She nodded and opened the door wide. “Come in,” she said softly. “I wondered why nobody came.”

  Stomach knotted, I stepped inside. Despite the decaying building and his single status, Randall W. Fairborn’s tiny apartment was scrupulously neat. His mother had apparently been packing his possessions when I knocked. A cardboard box rested on the bed. The job was no major task. Her son did not live long enough to accumulate much. Some books and papers on the table. The door to the small closet stood open, exposing a second uniform on a hanger.

  “I’m so sorry. I wrote the story in yesterday’s newspaper.”

  “I saw it. The man at the morgue gave me a copy when I asked him what happened to Randall. He said it would explain. I still don’t understand.”

  The only items on the closet floor were a worn but highly polished pair of shoes. She picked them up. “He had another pair,” she said gravely, as though that was important for me to know. “He was wearing them when…” Her voice cracked but she swallowed hard and went on. “He always took care of his things and kept them tidy. You can say that about him. Write that down,” she instructed, eyes moving to my notebook. “Write it down. That boy took pride in his appearance. I taught him that.”

  She clutched the shoes to her bosom.

  “Lord Jesus,” she whispered, “please tell me, why did God take my baby?” She stared at me. “Why did God take my baby?”

  I wanted to tell her that God did not take her baby, that it was a man with a gun, but I didn’t. She sat heavily on the bed and I sat in the only chair. Randall was an only child, she said. He became the man of the family at age nine, when his father drowned in a fishing accident. Randall took care of his mother, who did housework for a living. She saw that he went to church and to school. His first job was at age eleven.

  He had come to Miami to study computer science at Miami-Dade Community College. That was why he took the night job in security, in order to attend classes by day. The books on the table were texts.

  “He was so excited about coming to the big city,” Dorothy Fairborn said. “He tol’ me, ‘Mama, get with the times. It’s almost the twenty-first century, you got to know books and computers if you’re going anywhere in this world. Know computers, you kin always get a job, anyplace.’ His daddy didn’t have the education. He worked in the sawmill. Randall wanted a good job. He wanted to wear a clean shirt to work. He wanted to make me proud.” Tears spilled over.

  “That boy never caused nobody a minute’s trouble,” she gasped. “He was the sweetest soul who ever took a breath.”

  She had no clue as to who killed her son, or why, she said. Rising suddenly, she resumed packing, as though moving, staying busy, kept her from shattering completely. She had come to Miami alone on a Greyhound bus and was exhausted.

  “I kept telling him to stop sending money home, to eat right.” She shook her head. The cupboard contained only breakfast cereal, a jar of apple butter, and cardboard boxes of macaroni and cheese. The nearly empty refrigerator held apples, milk, and a grapefruit.

  I left her at the door, holding the Bible. The tinny music of an ice-cream truck wafted up from the street below, mingled with the shouts of the children. She asked again as I started down the stairs, “Why did God take my baby?”

  Parents who lose a child to violence are never the same. Neither are those who witness their pain.

  Lance Westfell had appropriated my desk and was signing autographs when I walked into the newsroom. Clad in white trousers and a guayabera, he was adapting fast to life in the Miami lane. Onnie, my friend from the library, another single mother, stood at the head of the line, face aglow. I thought of Darryl, her precious little boy, and the woman I had just left.

  “Britt!” Lance flashed his movie-star grin. “Didn’t miss anything, did I?”
<
br />   I shook my head silently, pulled Ryan’s chair up to my terminal, and went to work.

  “Got a terrific house,” Lance was saying. “Leased for three months. Waterfront, on Star Island. Mediterranean-style villa, gardens, a pool, a spa, a sauna, a tennis court, security, and a great sunset view of the city skyline across the bay. Even a well-stocked wine cellar.”

  “Very nice.” I thought of Randall Fairborn’s modest apartment, its tiny kitchen and nearly empty cupboards, and opened my notebook. Westfell would not stop talking, as I tried to focus on the story.

  “Met your friend, Lottie. The photographer. A trip. She’s dynamite.”

  “Good.”

  “What are we working on?” He rolled his chair closer to peer at my computer screen.

  I wondered what he meant by “we.”

  “A follow,” I said brightly. “Got some great quotes from the widowed mother of a murdered security guard.” I tapped in my password, glanced at Lance, and slugged the story MOTHER.

  He fell silent and watched me work. News broke before I finished: a telephone tip from a Miami Beach detective. A suspect had been identified in the fatal hit-and-run on the bridge three nights ago. That was the good news. The bad news was that the man was now barricaded in his Miami Shores home, threatening suicide and surrounded by a SWAT team.

  “Here we go again,” I said. Westfell appeared thrilled.

  The suspect had cleaned up his car and taken it to a body shop, according to the detective. What gave him away was traces of human hair, flesh, and blood beneath the chrome strip that holds the windshield in place.

  When a patrolman arrived, summoned by the shop owner, the suspect had leaped into his Ford Bronco and fled. With an increasing number of cops in hot pursuit, he raced home, roared into his driveway, and dashed inside. I have never understood fleeing suspects who seem to think, if they can just make it home, that they have won and the cops will go away. That is not how it works. Life is not a game of home free.