Margin of Error

by Edna Buchanan

  “Westfell’s not with her,” offered Menendez, who had seen me arrive alone. “She already taught him everything she knows. Didn’t take long.” He left, chuckling at his own stupid joke.

  I was glad he was gone. So was McDonald.

  “How are you, Britt? You getting enough sleep?”

  I knew what he meant. “Fine,” I lied. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “You look terrific,” he conceded. “Have you made your appointment yet?”

  “No,” I said, too sharply. Why wouldn’t he stop trying to push me into counseling I did not need? “Things are working themselves out.”

  I was grateful when he changed the subject, gesturing with the paper in his hand. “The chief was so impressed by Westfell the other night that he plans to award him a special commendation. Strictly PR bullshit.” He paused. “I hear you two are pretty tight.”

  “Me and the chief?”

  “No.” He grinned in spite of himself. “You and Westfell.”

  “We were at that SWAT scene.” Where was this going? I wondered.

  “I meant his hotel.”

  I stared, then swallowed. “Having dinner,” I said shortly. How did he know? Off-duty cops working hotel security must have seen us and blabbed. Cops are the world’s worst gossips. I hated explaining, sounding defensive.

  He shifted as though leaving. I didn’t want him to go. The leather gun belt he wore creaked. I felt wet and weak in the knees despite myself, remembering the sound it made when he stripped it off. Remembering his arms. I did miss him.

  “I thought you weren’t the type to be awed by some Hollywood heartthrob.”

  “I haven’t joined a fan club yet.”

  “Be careful, Britt. Just take care of yourself.” The concern in his voice sounded real.

  “Sure.” This strange, strained conversation was not what I had hoped for.

  “See you.” He turned toward the door.

  “When?” I hated myself for being so weak.

  His silver-blue eyes caught on mine. Was the sadness in them for me or him?

  “I’ll give you a call,” he mumbled vaguely.

  Biting back another “When?” I swallowed hard, watched him make his getaway, and imagined a bullet hole, a big one, right between his shoulder blades. That made me hate myself even more, but it was either that or cry. Why was he so stubborn? Why were we both so stubborn?

  Lance arrived at five. Jaded newshounds who had gaped the first time did not even look up. But I stared. He stalked through the newsroom with a macho stride, as though ready to crack his bullwhip on the big screen. His reddened eyes blazed with intensity. His strong jaw clenched, his lips curled down in anger. A husky bodyguard type, a slightly less vivid clone, hustled to keep up. He wore black, a T-shirt, slacks, and a blazer. Behind his shades, his eyes roamed the room, reminding me of the Secret Service, except for this guy’s neat well-kept little ponytail. Lance, voice hollow, introduced him as Niko.

  Lance was probably still hungover, I thought, wondering if he had caught any sleep. The clone nodded at me, smile impersonal, continuing to survey the room.

  “Let’s talk,” Lance said. Niko frowned when Lance asked him to wait there. The two of us walked out of the newsroom together.

  “Cafeteria?” I said.

  “No, private.”

  “I know the place.” We sat on a concrete bench on a windswept outside patio off the third floor. The setting sun spilled blood-red stains across the rooftops of Overtown, scene of the last riots.

  The man who wanted to talk said nothing.

  “Meredith will be in physical therapy for some time, according to the news from Denver,” I finally said.

  “Yeah.” His tone was bitter. “They’re holding a press conference tomorrow.”

  “Who?”

  “The producers, Richard Van Ness and Wendy Weintraub, people from the studio. To announce Meredith Page’s replacement.” He lit a Marlboro, shielding the flame from the wind, and sucked in a deep drag.

  “They already have somebody?”

  “Yeah.” He stared at the sinking sun. “Lexie Duran.”

  “Your ex-wife?”

  Taking a deep breath, he nodded and flipped his cigarette over the ledge.

  I didn’t understand. “Why her?”

  “My agent neglected to include co-star approval in my contract because our deal was always with Meredith Page, right from the start. The clause should have been inserted anyway. That son of a bitch. I have a gentleman’s agreement with my agent not to steal from me. I forgot to make him agree not to be stupid.”

  “Does Lexie Duran fit the role? Meredith Page has to be at least ten or twelve years older and she’s beautiful but not … not as…”

  “Flashy.”

  “Right.”

  “As written, our female lead is a brilliant nuclear physicist, a genius, familiar with the nuclear reactor in Cuba. She is the free world’s only hope to undo the sabotage in time. Can you picture Lexie Duran as a nuclear scientist?”

  “It is a stretch.”

  “They’re flying in new writers to revamp her character and rework the script.” He chuckled without mirth. “It’s not gonna be the movie I thought it would be.”

  “Maybe it’ll be great,” I said.

  He turned to look directly at me for the first time. Only a slight sliver of sun still showed above the horizon. “Don’t patronize me, Britt. You’re the only person I can talk to in Miami, the only one with nothing to gain, no ax to grind.” He sighed. “You know the situation with me and Lexie.”

  “Just say no.” Where was the problem? “Just don’t do it. You’re the star.”

  “You don’t understand the bottom line. That’s all that counts in this business. It wasn’t good for The Last Gunfighter. I did another big-budget movie, Dark Journey, my last project for WFI, World Film Industries, before coming over to Titan Films for Margin of Error. Dark Journey is in the can, about to be released. The suits at WFI are sweating it. A preview audience booed; we reshot the ending and added some scenes. It’s being re-edited as we speak. Now the studio execs at Titan are skittish. If I don’t agree to Lexie stepping in, they’re making noises about taking the insurance payout and dumping the entire project.

  “Bringing Lexie in to co-star after our bitter high-profile divorce is ‘foolproof, hot-button casting,’ according to Alan Cappleman, head of the studio. They think the curiosity factor, the fans’ prurient interest, guarantees big box office.”

  “She must be uncomfortable too. Why would she agree?”

  “Are you kidding? She couldn’t sign fast enough. Margin of Error is a sixty-million-dollar production, her biggest film so far. Putting us together will send the tabloids into a feeding frenzy. That’s right up her alley. She loves it, especially since she knows how much I hate it. It gives her another chance to work me over. I thought all that was finished.”

  He lit another cigarette as the temperature dropped and darkness closed in over the city.

  “Funny,” he said. “We wanted to work together in the beginning. Spent a lot of time talking about the business, reading scripts, discussing projects. Never had the chance.” He gave a little snort. “Now we can’t stand being in the same room … And guess what, folks? We’re gonna make a movie!” He sighed heavily and got to his feet.

  “And I thought dealing with editors was tough.”

  “Maybe one, two editors handle your story. How would you feel if it was a committee of egos, calling endless meetings to push their own cockamamie ideas?

  “I’m worried about this film. Everything’s taking a whole different spin. This was my chance to work opposite a serious, stage-trained, Academy Award-nominated actress. Sure, it’s an action flick, but the script was really well written. I hoped it would be quality, that I’d finally break outa the mindless-action hunk image and be taken seriously. Now I’m playing opposite Lexie, who is not a trained actress, they’re tea
ring up the script, and instead of a fine movie it’s gonna be a public spectacle.”

  “Life never goes according to plan.” I shivered, hugging my arms in the nighttime chill.

  “Let’s get some coffee.” He took a deep breath and stood for a moment, staring at the rising stars. “Everything else may be going to hell in a handbasket, but, you know, I do like Miami. It’s different here, Britt. Everything is softer, more seductive than LA.”

  “Don’t let it fool you,” I said.

  5

  Lance soon called it a night, striding off into the gloom with his own thoughts, his past, and Niko like a shadow on his heels. I decided to do the same and go home before Miami’s good citizens began acting out their hostilities, frustrations, and bizarre fantasies, keeping me on the job all night.

  Halfway to the elevator, my phone rang, I wanted out, but hesitated, went back, and picked it up.

  “Are you the reporter?” The stranger’s voice was tense. “Detective Bliss gave me your number. He said you might be able to help me.

  “Angel, my ex-wife, is charged with murder, but she still has custody of my children and won’t let me see ‘em.”

  My chance gone, I put down my things, slid back into my desk chair, and flipped open a fresh notebook.

  “I’m sure my kids ain’t eating right,” Darnell Oliver whined. “The woman never cooks, Lord knows what she’s got going on there. That’s why she won’t let me see them, cuz they’re big enough to talk and tell me what the hell she’s doing.”

  “You really suspect that your children are in danger?” Was he a concerned parent or a vindictive ex-spouse?

  “No doubt about it,” he said forcefully. “You know what she did to that little baby. She was probably out there dancing and drinking while that baby starved to death.”

  “But HRS returned the other children after an investigation. The social workers must be satisfied that they are safe with her.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “And being a reporter, you know that HRS gives kids back to parents who kill them all the time.”

  True. If Angel’s track record was bad, so was that of the government agency charged with protecting children.

  “All I want is a chance to take good care of ‘em. My second wife is willin’ to help me raise ‘em to study hard and be good Christians. We got us a nice home, half an hour from Disney World. The judge must be crazy.”

  “You pay child support?”

  “Every week. Between that and hiring lawyers to fight this thing, it’s breaking my back. All I wanna do is see my kids and give ‘em a good home. Harry should be getting into Peewee League, and Misty should be a Girl Scout, not taking care of the little ones and watching her mother bring home new boyfriends. Meanwhile, Angel is shuffling the banana and the kids ain’t even eating right.”

  “Shuffling the banana?”

  “Yeah, you know, how they do on food stamps. Take a ten-dollar coupon to the supermarket, buy a couple of bananas, use the change to buy a six-pack.”

  We talked at length. Sad, that this was how their high school romance ended. Teenagers themselves when they began raising a family, they quit school and married when she became pregnant. I wondered if she had been voted most likely to conceive.

  “Are you the father of Cynthia, the baby who died?”

  “Nah, we’ve been divorced for nearly four years. I was already remarried when she had that one. I didn’t even know about the two youngest until last summer; that’s when I first tried for custody of mine.”

  “Who was Cynthia’s father?” I didn’t remember hearing a thing about him when the baby died and Angel was arrested.

  “Who knows? She probably don’t have a clue,” he said indignantly. “Woman’s a slut, pops those babies out once a year like clockwork. Ain’t happy unless she’s pregnant.”

  “But why? When she can’t even take care of—”

  “Easier than working, I guess. A nut case. The woman is a nut case.”

  I took his number and promised to check it out. No time like the present, I thought. Any task postponed on my beat may stay that way. The hot breath of breaking news constantly derails good intentions, swallowing all your time. When something matters, do it now, I always tell myself. Children matter.

  Angel Oliver and her kids lived in a Title Eight government-subsidized apartment near the Orange Bowl. The aging neighborhood had grown even shabbier since the Dolphins and the Orange Bowl game moved twenty miles north to the new state-of-the-art Pro Player Stadium. The team took a major source of local income with it. The Orange Bowl lacked proper parking, and its neighbors had grown to depend on instant cash earned by renting parking spaces on their lawns and in their yards during games. Working families and retirees on fixed incomes squeezed in dozens of cars at six to ten dollars apiece. The old neighborhood sorely misses the Dolphins.

  The front door of the first-floor apartment opened right onto the street. The doorbell apparently did not work. The clamor of children and TV inside did not abate when I rang persistently. When I rapped soundly on the wooden door, they grew quiet and it opened almost immediately. I saw no one, then looked down. A small boy, about age five, had one fist on the doorknob, and stared up at me with an expectant gaze. His silky hair was dark blond, with long, straight bangs that brushed his eyebrows.

  “Are you Mommy’s friend?” he asked.

  Before I could answer, he demanded, “Did you bring me anything?”

  The evening was chilly, but he wore no shirt and was barefoot, in baggy shorts.

  “Is your mom home?”

  His siblings clustered behind him, including two big-eyed girls of about seven or eight. One had darker hair and they were not dressed alike, but seemed to be twins. Two smaller children were barefoot and in diapers, one of whom appeared in dire need of a change. The smallest, a runny-nosed rug rat, sat on the floor clutching a bottle. Another little one was gnawing on a half-eaten banana, reminding me of Darnell Oliver’s accusations.

  They all gazed up at me, expressions grave, except for the tyke who opened the door. He simply looked curious.

  “Is she here?” I took a step inside.

  “No.” The boy persisted. “Did you bring anything?”

  There were mattresses on the bare floor and little furniture, except for a top-of-the-line twenty-seven-inch color television apparently hooked up to cable.

  “Well, I didn’t know for sure you would be here, but I might have something.” The others, shy and cautious, quietly closed in around us to watch, expressions still grave. I groped in my purse for the individually wrapped hard orange candies I use when I miss meals and my energy flags.

  I came up one short but scrabbled at the bottom of the bag until I unearthed another. Each politely took one. Nobody grabbed. One of the twins, who picked up the baby’s bottle when it fell, even unwrapped one for him.

  “Can he have that? He won’t choke on it, will he?” I was asking a seven-year-old, clearly more experienced in child care than I was.

  “Don’t swallow it, Beppo,” she told him. “Just suck on it.”

  If they didn’t choke, was this good for their teeth? Did they brush? Were these babies all home alone?

  “Who’s taking care of you?”

  “Misty.” The boy licked his lips.

  “Harry!”

  A girl of eleven or twelve stepped out of what had to be the kitchen. Wearing a spattered apron, she had a long wooden soupspoon in one hand. She shared the same silky bangs and big eyes of the others but wore the harried look of an adult.

  “You know you’re not supposed to open the door! You’re not supposed to let anybody in!”

  Harry shoved back his bangs in an exasperated manly gesture. “Stop it, Misty. It’s okay. She brought us something.”

  “Just you wait,” she warned ominously. To me, she said, “You have to come back when my mother is home.”

  The others gathered around her, staunch lit
tle troupers, trying to look contrite, distancing themselves from me, except for Harry, who stood his ground, pouting, and the baby, who had crawled out of his diaper. One twin even spit out her orange drop and held it in a sticky palm as though it were something about to be confiscated by the police.

  I needed to reassure Misty, I thought, and get into that kitchen to see if there was any food for the children. She pursued the baby, snatching him up with maternal expertise as she deftly readjusted his diaper. That gave me the chance to sneak a look in the narrow alley-style kitchen with greasy spots and holes in the wall. The countertop seemed reasonably clean and was spread with slices of white bread and a package of lunch meat. She must have been slapping bologna sandwiches together. The soup simmering on the stove smelled like Campbell’s.

  “Why is this door open?” Angel Oliver demanded as she walked through it. Thin and blonde, she wore a short black leather jacket and looked far too young and pretty to be the mother of so many children or a pregnant defendant facing manslaughter charges. Her pregnancy, in fact, did not show at all. She and the children shared the same rosebud mouth and big eyes, though her brows had been tweezed into a thin line and the lashes thickened by mascara. A tiny gold angel dangled from a chain around her neck, but she affected the wary, suspicious demeanor of a mother bear who has just surprised a stranger stalking her cubs.

  “Did you bring me anything?” Harry asked, tugging at her skirt.

  “What’s going on here?” his mother demanded.

  “Harry let her in,” shrilled one of the twins, pointing a small finger at the culprit. He quit tugging at his mother and tried to look innocent.

  He wasn’t the only one. “Hi there.” I greeted her with the phony warmth and sheepish grin of a burglar caught in the act.

  “Are you from HRS?” she asked crisply.

  “No,” I reassured her. “My name is Britt Montero, from the—”

  She knew. Didn’t even wait until I could spit it out. “Get out of my house!”