Misgivings

by Donn Cortez

“Not usually, no. We stay open late that night and serve it after midnight mass. Usually, we get many single men who are away from home and miss their families. For them, it is a way of not being so alone on Christmas. The reason I called you is because of one such man.”

  Delko sat up straighter. “You remember someone in particular?”

  “Oh, yes. He came to see me about ten days ago. He very much wanted a ceia de natal, with all the trimmings. When I asked him how many people the dinner was for, he told me it was just for himself. I told him it would be much less expensive to simply come for the Christmas Eve meal, but he told me he would be unable to attend on that night. He was willing to pay and told me to give whatever he did not eat to those less fortunate.”

  “When did he have this meal?”

  “Three days ago. He left a most generous tip, as well.”

  Delko sighed. “I’m guessing he paid in cash, right?”

  “Oh, no, he used a credit card. Would you like to see the receipt?”

  The page with the fingerprint had carefully been excised from its source; now, Horatio retrieved the rest of the magazine from the evidence box.

  If I can’t figure out how he did it . . . maybe I can figure out why.

  The pictorial in question was of a young woman named Jazeera. She had an impressive physique, dusky skin, dark eyes, and a shy smile—although her shyness apparently didn’t extend to keeping her clothes on. There was no last name listed, of course.

  A slightly less revealing picture of her also graced the cover. While she was, in fact, wearing a single item of clothing, it managed to cover her in a strategic way.

  The item in question was a black silk scarf wrapped to cover her head, ears, and throat. The caption below the picture read, Beneath the burka! Our Arabian beauty shows you what you’re missing!

  She was wearing a hijab, a Muslim head scarf. Although the article inside made no mention of her actually being Islamic, the cover photo certainly implied that she was.

  It was starting to make sense. Horatio thumbed through the magazine until he found the publisher’s information, then made a few more calls.

  “Thanks for giving me a hand, Frank,” Wolfe said.

  “No problem,” Tripp said. “You really think we’ll find something along Santa’s backtrail?”

  “If the route you obtained is accurate, I’m sure of it.”

  Tripp and Wolfe were a few blocks away from the skating rink where the body had been found. They were walking down the sidewalk slowly, Wolfe on the inside, Tripp on the outside. Both held flashlights and used them to scan the immediate area.

  “Well, the Claus I talked to said they always establish a few key points beforehand,” Tripp said. “An initial meeting spot, an end point, and a few highlights along the way. It tends to get a little chaotic though; apparently it’s not easy riding herd on a hundred and fifty Santas.”

  “Santi,” Wolfe said absently.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s how they refer to themselves in the plural. Santi. Like the plural of sarcophagus is sarcophagi.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, I talked to a few of them and managed to put together a reasonably detailed list of where they went, including detours.”

  “Well, it’s been less than twenty-four hours. Witnesses’ memories should still be fresh.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think we have to worry about whether or not people will remember seeing our suspects . . .”

  What surprised Wolfe, though, was the range of reactions they got when they questioned people along the route. Santa had rampaged through hotels, bars, shops, two strip clubs, and a bowling alley; for the most part, he seemed to have been met with open arms. Every now and then, though, someone took exception. One waitress complained that Santa had made her spill a tray of drinks; a salesclerk at an upscale shoe boutique seemed visibly angry that the female Santas had been flashing passersby. “It’s just—horrible,” the woman sniffed. “What about the children?”

  “Yeah, we don’t want children exposed to breasts,” Wolfe muttered to Tripp. “Not real ones, anyway . . .”

  “What?” the woman said.

  “Nothing,” Tripp said. “Thank you for your time.”

  Wolfe expected a rebuke from Tripp after they’d left the store—but got a grin instead.

  “Kid,” Tripp said, “you are gonna get both of us in trouble.”

  “Sorry,” Wolfe said, grinning back. “But c’mon—she had enough silicone in her to regrout my shower.”

  “Let’s just focus on the job at hand, all right?”

  The third hotel they hit was a little more down-scale than the others—Santa had apparently been attracted by the garish display in the lobby, which included reindeer, plastic snowmen, elves, and a full-blown nativity scene featuring a stuffed donkey and three wise men carrying surfboards.

  Wolfe looked around while Tripp talked to the front-desk clerk. The nativity scene had some straw scattered around, but no indoor/outdoor carpet.

  Then he spotted the sign.

  “—well, they were boisterous,” the man at the front desk said. He was in his twenties, black, and wore a navy blue blazer and black tie. “But good-natured, you know? They weren’t out to cause any trouble, they were just having a good time. They danced around our little display there, sang a Christmas carol—well, sort of a Christmas carol—and then they were out the door. They didn’t break or steal anything.”

  “Excuse me,” Wolfe said. “That sign says you have a miniature golf course on the premises?”

  The clerk nodded. “Yes, it’s on the roof of the first floor. Nine holes. It’s mainly for the kids, but any of our guests can use it.”

  “Did any of the Santas go up there?”

  The clerk frowned. “Not that I saw, but I guess it was possible. Access is through that stairwell right there.” He pointed to the other side of the lobby. “It’s not locked. I suppose one of them could have slipped up there while the lobby was full.”

  “Mind if I take a look?” Wolfe asked.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “You have an inspiration?” Tripp asked, following Wolfe into the stairwell.

  “Maybe,” Wolfe said. “Worth checking out, anyway.”

  Most of the hotel’s rooms were in a twenty-story tower, but the main floor was more spread out; some enterprising manager had decided to take the large, flat space of the first-floor roof and turn it into a recreational area. The mini-golf course consisted of short putting greens, sometimes angled at the end, with various obstacles to make the game more interesting: small, arching bridges, tunnels made of PVC pipe, even a stereotypical model of a windmill.

  And lots and lots of green indoor/outdoor carpeting.

  Wolfe knelt down, pulled a few strands out, and peered at it. He nodded in satisfaction. “I’ll have to get this back to the lab, but I’m pretty sure it’ll match.”

  Tripp glanced around, then up at the tower. “So this is it? Pretty exposed—especially if you’re dressed all in red.”

  “Most of it, yeah.” Wolfe walked over to the windmill. “This is the only structure with enough height to give any privacy from the hotel room windows . . .”

  He shone his flashlight at the sheltered side. There, on the ground, was a small blob of white.

  “Used condom,” Tripp said. “Looks pretty fresh, too. Think the DNA will match our vic?”

  “Unless this is a popular make-out spot for horny teenagers, it should.” Wolfe knelt down and peered into the narrow wooden slot at the base of the windmill where the ball was supposed to go. Reaching inside, he felt around and pulled out a crumpled ball of red fabric with bits of white fur trim sticking out.

  “And this,” Wolfe said with a satisfied smile, “should match the fibers I found on his body.”

  “So somebody else was jingling Santa’s bells.”

  “And since whoever wore this suit left it here, they didn’t rejoin the other Santas. Why?”

  “Maybe they had a fight,�
� Tripp suggested. “Alcohol and sex can be a pretty volatile mix.”

  “That’s a possibility. But why hide the suit? I can see leaving it behind if she stormed off, but this was stashed where it wouldn’t be seen.”

  “Sounds like Mrs. Claus didn’t want anyone to connect her to Santa,” Tripp said.

  Wolfe put his hands against the windmill and pushed. It rocked slightly, obviously not attached to its base. “Give me a hand, will you, Frank?”

  Together, they tipped the windmill over on its side. A variety of detritus had accumulated on the floor inside, including three dusty golf balls, a candy wrapper—and a small metal flask.

  “Looks like Santa,” Wolfe said, “has left us another present . . .”

  The magazine’s name was Exotic Skin, and it was published right in Miami. Their offices were in a squat, white building off Flagler, with only a small sign over the door that read PRIAPIX PUBLISHING. Horatio pushed the glass door open and went inside.

  The receptionist was both a stereotype and a self-contained story all in one; she had the same bosomy, narrow-waisted, long-legged body that the magazine’s pictorials deified—but her face was defined by a large, purplish birthmark that began in her blond hairline and spread over one eye, most of her nose, crept around her mouth, and then ended halfway down her neck. Her desk was made of clear Plexiglas; obviously, her employers wished to emphasize her best assets, which the white miniskirt and belly-baring, matching top she wore definitely did.

  She looked up from her computer when he entered and gave him a dazzling smile. “Hi! What can I do for you?”

  He pulled aside his jacket, revealing his badge, and smiled back. “I’m Lieutenant Horatio Caine, Miami-Dade Crime Lab. I was wondering if I could speak to someone about one of your models.”

  The badge didn’t faze her in the least. “Just a second—I’ll see if Johnny’s available.” She picked up a phone. “Johnny? There’s a police lieutenant here named Horatio Caine. He wants a few words about one of our models. . . . No, he didn’t say which one. Yes. Okay.” She put down the phone and said, “Go right in.”

  “Thank you.”

  The man in the inner office was seated behind a much less transparent desk, and got up and walked around it to extend his hand when Horatio entered. He was in his early thirties, dressed in a lime green bowling shirt and a pair of cargo shorts with sandals. His hair was long, unkempt, and brown, his nose prominent and freckled, and his teeth so white they didn’t look real.

  “Hi!” he said, shaking Horatio’s hand. “I’m Johnny Fieldstone, the publisher. This isn’t bad news, I hope.”

  He motioned Horatio to a chair and resumed his own.

  “Nothing like that.” Horatio leaned forward, hands clasped together, his forearms resting on his thighs. “At least, I hope not. The thing is, there was a violent incident in which the focal point seemed to be an issue of your magazine. More specifically, the woman on that issue’s cover.”

  Fieldstone frowned. “Which issue?”

  “This one.” Horatio pulled out a photocopy of the cover and handed it over.

  Fieldstone glanced at it and sighed. “Oh, yeah. I should have known.” He handed the copy back. “That was our foray into the Middle East. Not exactly our most popular move.”

  “Oh? Not a big seller?”

  “Oh, it brought in plenty of cash—but that wasn’t all. We get hate mail all the time, but this generated three times as much. Some of it even surprised me.”

  “How so?”

  Fieldstone picked up a pen from his desk and toyed with it between two fingers. “The offended Muslims, that I expected. Hell, the whole point of the issue was to generate some controversy—I figured that for every outraged Muslim who proposed a boycott, five more would buy the issue. Forbidden fruit, right? What I didn’t expect was all the angry letters I got from self-proclaimed patriots.”

  “People took exception to her supposed nationality?”

  “Big-time. Like it was somehow un-American to find a woman of Arabic descent attractive.” He shook his head. “Though I admit, I’ve got a blind spot on this particular subject. I find women of every kind attractive.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but the range of your magazine’s output—ethnic variations notwithstanding—would seem to contradict that.”

  Far from being offended, Fieldstone chuckled. “Oh, Exotic Skin isn’t the only thing we publish. It’s just the highest-profile—what makes it into the corner stores. Some of Priapix’s other titles are devoted to women over forty, large women, women who aren’t professional models. You’d be amazed how many women find the idea of thousands of strangers drooling over their naked image empowering.”

  “But not all of them do.”

  “No, we get plenty of criticism from antiporn crusaders, both left- and right-wingers—even when our cover girl isn’t Arab-American.”

  “Would it be possible to talk to the young lady herself? I’d like to eliminate any possibility this might be personal, for her own safety.”

  “I don’t see why not. We’re usually very careful about guarding our models’ identities, but that’s for their own security. Obviously, that’s not a problem here.” He picked up his phone and pressed a button. “Sharlane? Sweetheart, could you pull up the files on our cover girl for the December issue? Lieutenant Caine needs her contact information. No, she isn’t in any trouble, it’s just a precaution. Okay, thanks.”

  He put the phone down. “They’ll be ready for you in a minute.”

  Horatio got to his feet. “Thank you. Would it also be possible to take a look at some of the hate mail you’ve received?”

  “Sorry, but I don’t keep that stuff around. The email gets erased, the rest gets thrown out. It’s just too negative, you know?”

  “Well, if you could hang on to anything that shows up in the next little while, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure, I can do that.”

  The door opened and Sharlane strode in. She walked up to Horatio and held out a sheet of paper. “I printed it out for you.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  She turned to Fieldstone. “I don’t want to interrupt, but Sherry called. Soccer practice was canceled and she needs a ride home after school.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it. Can you maybe grab some takeout on your way home?”

  “Thai okay?”

  “Sounds great.”

  She flashed a smile just for him and went back to her desk. The look on Fieldstone’s face lingered even as the door closed.

  Horatio glanced down at the man’s hand and wasn’t surprised to see the gold band there. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the domestic type, Mister Fieldstone,” he said with a smile of his own.

  “Hey, even Hugh Hefner got married. There’s a world of difference between pretty and beautiful, Lieutenant—and I’ve never had any trouble seeing the difference.”

  The manager of Apimentado’s was a slender, pixieish woman named Maria Arrisca. She strode up to Delko with a large, beaming smile on her face. “Yes? A table for how many?”

  “I’m Eric Delko—the CSI you talked to on the phone?”

  “Oh? I didn’t expect you to be so young.” The smile on Arrisca’s face took any sting out of the words. “Well, I’m glad to be of assistance. Come, come.”

  She led him to a table and sat him down, then insisted on bringing him some strong Brazilian coffee before they discussed anything else. Delko, familiar with the social niceties ingrained in Latin American culture, accepted a cup graciously. The restaurant was decorated with an abundance of tropical greenery, so much so that it was like sitting in a rain forest. Carved wooden toucans with colorful bills hung from perches; posters advertising Carnivale or samba dancing decorated the walls. A sultry female voice sang in Portuguese from hidden speakers, joined in the chorus by her audience singing along.

  Once protocol had been taken care of, Arrisca joined him across the table and proferred a piece of paper. “Here is the credi
t card receipt,” she said. “Was he involved in something unsavory? Was it perhaps”—she lowered her voice and leaned forward—“drugs?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Delko said, taking the receipt. “So far, in fact, I know practically nothing about”—he glanced down—“Hector Villanova.” If that is your real name, and not an alias. “Which is why anything you can tell me about him would certainly help.”

  “I will do my best.” She gave him a brief description that seemed to match that of the man who’d bought the boat: Hispanic, middle-aged, fairly well-dressed but nondescript. “I can also tell you that he came alone, that he was from São Paulo, and that he was married. He was very appreciative of all the food.” Her smile widened. “He told me our turkey reminded him of his mother’s.”

  “How did you know he was married? Did he talk about his personal life?”

  “He was wearing a wedding ring, so it was obvious. But even though he was friendly, he did not want to talk about himself—he would politely change the subject when I tried. I did not wish him to be uncomfortable, so I took the hint.”

  Delko nodded and took a sip of his coffee. It was excellent, rich and dark. “But you say he was friendly?”

  “Oh, yes. It was like he was celebrating something, though he wouldn’t say what. I will confess, it has preyed on my mind ever since; I cannot resist a mystery.”

  Delko grinned. “I know what you mean— they’re kind of addictive. I’m just happy I get paid to solve them.”

  “So—may I ask why you are chasing this man? Has he gone missing, or perhaps committed a crime?” She leaned forward, her eyes bright and intent.

  Delko hesitated. “I’m sorry. We recovered a body in the Everglades yesterday. We don’t have a positive ID yet, but I’m pretty sure it’s Mister Villanova.”

  She leaned back, her eyes going wide. “Merda. What a shame. He seemed like such a nice man— but, then again, who is to say? A man who smiles can still hide many dark things in his heart.”

  “Very true. He didn’t give any clues to what his business here in Miami was?”

  She shook her head. “No, nothing.”

  “Well, if he was from Brazil, I should be able to track down a passport photo. Is it all right if I bring it by later so you can confirm it’s the same man?”