Hot Schemes

by Sherryl Woods

  “Damn you, Michael O’Hara, you’d better not die on me,” she whispered furiously.

  Either her words or the tears that spilled onto his bare chest apparently got through to him. His eyelids flickered and his lips tried to curve into a smile. “I’m not going to die, querida,” he murmured. “Too much unfinished business.”

  “The explosion,” she said with an air of resignation. “And Tío Miguel.”

  He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “You and me.”

  • • •

  They tried to admit Michael at county-run Jackson Memorial Hospital so they could watch him overnight and through the following day. Unfortunately, there weren’t enough doctors and nurses in the entire University of Miami-affiliated trauma center to hold him down once he’d made up his mind to go.

  “Michael, I will go to see your family,” Molly promised in what she guessed was probably a vain attempt to get him to listen to reason. “I will tell them everything that’s happened. I’ve already told them most of it on the phone and convinced them they don’t need to rush over here in the middle of the night.”

  She didn’t mention that it had taken all of her persuasive skills to accomplish that. Tío Pedro had been ready to pack the entire family into the car, along with a priest, when she finally got through to him that Michael would more than likely be released first thing in the morning anyway. That might be only a couple of hours away, but she figured those hours were best spent in a hospital bed, not chasing down clues in his uncle’s disappearance and the bombing of the fishing boat. She tried one more time to make him see reason.

  “You’ll think much more clearly after a couple of hours of rest. You won’t get that at home with everyone hovering over you. Besides, you have no business leaving the hospital. You’ve just been through a major trauma.”

  “A couple of scratches,” he argued.

  “And a knock on the head that’s obviously addled your brain,” she countered.

  He sat up, wincing with the effort. “This is something I have to do, amiga. Will you help me or not?”

  Molly glanced at the harried resident trauma surgeon, who shrugged. “If he goes, it’s against medical advice, but I can’t stop him. If he’s not staying, I’ve got two gunshot wounds out there who are in far greater need of my help.”

  “By all means, treat your other patients,” Michael said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He winced in pain, but remained stubbornly determined. “Molly, find my clothes.”

  “Your clothes are a little the worse for wear,” she reminded him. “They’re ripped and soaking wet. I could bring clothes from home in the morning.”

  “I’ll walk out of here stark naked if I have to,” he warned.

  So much for that. “An interesting possibility,” she commented. “That ought to guarantee catching the attention of the nurses. Maybe one of them will convince you to stay.”

  He scowled at her.

  “Okay. Okay,” Molly muttered, giving up. “I think I saw some jeans and a T-shirt wadded up in the back of your wagon, along with all the soccer gear. I’ll go get ‘em. Meantime, sit still, please. This could be the last rest you get for a while, if you can call it that.”

  “Are Felipe and Ken out there?”

  “Half the Metro-Dade police force is out there. The rest of them are on the Bay picking up debris, hoping to piece together some decent evidence. You created quite a commotion, Detective.”

  “Tell Felipe and Ken I need to talk to them.”

  “Your boss will be disappointed if he’s not in on your powwow.”

  “Okay, fine. Send him in, too.”

  “Maybe you should just go into the lobby and hold a damned press conference,” she said irritably, as the tight band of tension around her head finally snapped. She started to the door of the treatment room.

  “Molly?”

  She turned.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure. I’m just dandy,” she retorted. “You get yourself practically blown to smithereens and now it’s back to business as usual. You’ll have to pardon me if I can’t switch emotional gears as quickly as you do.”

  He eased gingerly off the examining table. “Come here.”

  “What for?”

  “Come on, amiga, humor me.”

  She walked slowly over to him. Her insides were still turning somersaults. He cupped her face in both hands and tilted her head until she was forced to meet his gaze.

  “It’s over now and I’m okay,” he said quietly.

  A sigh eased through her, but relief was tantalizingly elusive. Molly slid her arms around Michael’s waist and rested her head against his chest. He felt warm and solid and very much alive. If she could have held on like this forever, it might have reassured her. Instead, she knew deep down that this respite would be short-lived. If anything, the real danger was just beginning.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Outside the doors of the relatively new trauma center entrance, the media hounds were gathered like a pack of irritable wolves. Before Molly went through those doors, she found a police spokesman. He was clearly a rookie, judging by his age and the fact that he was hiding inside, rather than outside where he could hobnob with the reporters. She pulled him aside and suggested that this might be the perfect time for some sort of statement.

  “Who are you?” he asked suspiciously. “Do you work for the hospital?”

  “No, but I have to get something from O’Hara’s car for him and I really don’t want to be the one they start questioning out there. It’d be a lot better if you gave them an update, something official.”

  “But nobody’s issued anything formal yet,” the officer argued.

  This was definitely not a man inclined to climb out on a limb. “I can solve that problem. Tell them the doctors are impressed with Detective O’Hara’s hard head,” she suggested.

  “Huh?”

  The challenge of getting through to him lost its appeal. “Never mind. I’m sure you’ll be able to think of something innocuous. That’s what people in your line of work are best at.”

  The officer regarded her uncertainly, clearly not sure whether to take offense at her sarcasm. Since she really wanted him to distract the media—and since she frequently had to do the same kind of public relations tap dance—she apologized.

  “Sorry. Just pacify them, okay?”

  “I’ll get the director.”

  Obviously this was not a man who craved the limelight. She predicted a very short career in the public information office. “You can forget the director. He’s in with O’Hara. You’re on your own, Officer.”

  Just to make sure he didn’t turn tail and run, she nudged him out the door ahead of her. As she’d expected, the reporters turned into a frenzied pack, lobbing questions faster than tennis balls flew at the annual Lipton International Tournament over on Key Biscayne.

  Since she didn’t trust the reticent young man’s ability to satisfy their hunger for information for long, as soon as all attention was focused on him, Molly slipped past the crowd. When she reached Michael’s big wagoneer, which she’d left illegally parked and protectively watched over by a willing hospital security guard, she opened the tailgate and collapsed for a moment on the cool metal. All of the tension of the past few hours caught up with her at once.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” the petite female security guard in her snug navy-blue uniform asked.

  “Just a delayed reaction.”

  “How’s O’Hara?”

  “You know him?” she said, regarding the young African-American woman with surprise. In a hospital complex the size of JMH with its eight thousand or so employees and physicians and its huge daily volume of traffic, she was astonished anyone even remembered the names of their coworkers.

  “Sure. He turns up here all the time when probable homicides roll in. That’s how I knew it was him. I recognized his car and tag number. The man refuses to park where he’s supposed to. You must have got
that from him.”

  “Bad habits do tend to get around.”

  “So, is he okay? Nobody’s come out I could ask. We’ve got a full moon. The whole damn place is filled up with crazies. Nobody takes a break on a night like this.”

  “Michael’s okay. At any rate, he insists on leaving. I’m supposed to be out here scrounging for clothes for him to wear.”

  “You sit right where you are. I’ll get ‘em for you.” She scrambled into the back of the wagon, sorted through the clutter of soccer balls and knee pads, and emerged triumphantly clutching a pair of grass-stained jeans and an embarrassingly wrinkled T-shirt. “They’re not pretty, but they’ll do, right?”

  Molly laughed for the first time in hours. “They won’t exactly enhance his image as the best-dressed cop on the force.”

  “He is one slick dude, isn’t he?” the guard said, grinning at the comedown from Michael’s usual spiffy designer suits. “Serves him right for leaving against advice. That is what he’s up to, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve got it.” Molly took the clothes. “Thanks. We’ll no doubt see you shortly.”

  “Tell him I want this car out of here before shift change or the boss will bust my butt.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Molly said. “But I don’t think he intends to waste a second more than necessary as a guest of the hospital.”

  Back inside the treatment room, Molly found Michael trying to persuade Metro-Dade Safety Director Lucas Petty to assign him full-time to investigate the bombing and his uncle’s disappearance. The burly black man with his tough, by-the-book philosophy of operating the department wasn’t buying Michael’s reasoning for an instant.

  “Last I checked you were a homicide detective, O’Hara. We’ve got no body.”

  “Dammit, my uncle left on that boat. Now he’s missing and the boat’s been bombed. In my book that adds up to reasonable cause to suspect foul play.”

  “It surely does,” Petty said with a genial nod of agreement. “And I will even go along with the idea that your uncle was taken against his will. You, however, will not be conducting whatever investigation this department decides to launch. You’ll be home with your sorry butt resting in bed, like the doctor ordered.”

  Marshall and Domínguez turned away to keep the public safety director from spotting their commiserating grins. Obviously they knew, as did Molly, that Lucas Petty didn’t have a prayer of keeping Michael out of this particular investigation. They all waited for his anticipated declaration of intent.

  Sure enough, his jaw set stubbornly, he fumbled in the pocket of his ruined pants, came out with his wallet, and removed his badge. “As of now, I’m on leave.”

  Petty looked as if he wanted to strangle him. He rocked back on his heels and glared. “You take sick leave, then you’d damned sight better stay home and act sick.”

  “I’m taking vacation leave.”

  “Not without prior authorization.”

  “Don’t push me, Lucas,” Michael said quietly, his expression lethal.

  Unfortunately, Lucas Petty didn’t appear to be in any mood to have his buttons pushed either. He took two steps forward until he was in Michael’s face. “O’Hara, you are treading on very thin ice here.”

  Michael never even flinched. “Is my leave granted or not?”

  “If it’s not?”

  “Then I’ll quit, dammit. Right here and right now. You’ll have a hell of a time explaining to the press why one of your best homicide detectives was forced into early retirement. And forget about any hogwash about a medical disability stemming from this damned explosion. When I’m finished with this investigation, I will transfer into the Miami PD, which has been begging me to do just that for the past ten years, and I will look for every opportunity to make you regret this whole lousy episode.”

  Petty backed up and threw his hands in the air. “Jesus, O’Hara, you know it’s bad news taking on an investigation in which you’re emotionally involved.”

  “You don’t have the time or the manpower to give this case the attention it deserves,” Michael countered. “Nobody will care more than I do about seeing that it’s solved.”

  Lucas Petty cast his gaze heavenward. Judging from his sour expression when he finally looked back at Michael, he hadn’t received any divine inspiration. “Okay, okay, you win. Take your leave. How much time do you want?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “Terrific. Your fellow officers in homicide will be pleased to take over your work load, I’m sure.”

  Michael glared at him. “Don’t you try to lay a guilt trip on me. I’ve carried more than my share of work for my entire fifteen years in the department.”

  Lucas Petty heaved a sigh of resignation. “Yeah, you have. Okay, O’Hara, do what you have to do. Be careful, though. This bombing thing tonight wasn’t some amateur prank.” He held out his hand and shook Michael’s. His expression softened. “I’m glad you’re okay, son.” He looked at Marshall and Domínguez. “You guys coming?”

  They glanced at Michael, who shook his head.

  “Not just yet, boss,” Marshall replied.

  The public safety director’s eyes narrowed. “You two aren’t on leave. Remember that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marshall replied, his cheeks flushing with a patch of guilty color.

  Domínguez just avoided his gaze.

  Petty looked as if he wanted to launch into another lecture, but eventually he just shook his head, muttered something under his breath about maverick cops, and left them alone.

  “What do you want us to do?” Felipe Domínguez asked as soon as their boss was gone.

  “Ask around on the street, Felipe. I know you have contacts. See what’s going on with some of these anti-Castro paramilitary groups. Kenny, when they bring in the remains of the boat, I want you to go over every piece of evidence and tell me exactly what you find. I need to know where to start looking for the people who made that bomb.”

  Ken Marshall shook his head in disgust. “Exactly how many parts of that bomb do you expect to be recovered from the goddamn bay?”

  “One would be enough, if it’s the right one, one we can trace.”

  Domínguez shot him a grin. “Man, you watch too many cop shows on TV. Either that or you’ve got the soul of some romantic Cuban poet living in a dream world.”

  Michael grinned back. “I just know what fine, dedicated police officers can come up with when they put their minds to it.”

  “Oh, man, the pressure,” Marshall groaned, but he, too, was grinning now, clearly relieved that Michael was back to his usual bossy behavior, acting as if that explosion had never happened. “You know, O’Hara, one of these days you’re going to run the whole damned department.You know exactly how to motivate people.”

  “Right, pizza and beer at my place at the end of your long, productive days. See you tonight about seven thirty?”

  “Tonight?” Domínguez said. “You expect answers tonight?”

  “Let’s face it, some group out there is going to be very proud of what it did. Most likely they won’t be quiet about their accomplishment. My guess is there will be some trumped-up story about Miguel’s loyalty to the cause. As for the evidence, if it isn’t in the lab today, chances are Kenny’s right and it’s buried in the muck at the bottom of Biscayne Bay.”

  • • •

  To Molly’s astonishment, Michael didn’t wage a struggle for the keys to his car. After being eased protectively through the crowd of reporters by Marshall and Domínguez, he kidded with the security guard for a moment, then hauled himself into the passenger seat, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

  Worried by his ashen complexion, Molly hesitated before turning on the ignition. “You all right?”

  “Let’s just say I’m glad the kids don’t have soccer practice today,” he said, referring to the team he coached and on which Molly’s son played. “I’m not exactly up to running wind sprints.”

  “It’s not too late to check you in here,” sh
e said.

  “Not a chance. Most of the people I know who check into this place wind up dead.”

  “You’re a homicide detective,” she reminded him as she reluctantly turned on the engine. “You don’t come here with folks who are hale and hearty.”

  “Just drive. I’ll be fine.” As he said it, he flipped on Spanish-language radio, known for the feverish, generally one-sided, anti-Fidel pitch of its political commentary. It was the first place a terrorist might turn to claim credit for a politically motivated bombing. Molly tried valiantly to pick out distinguishable words from the rapid-fire clip of the newscast. Unfortunately she was lost, even though Spanish classes had left her with at least a serviceable vocabulary.

  “Anything?” she asked finally in frustration.

  Michael shook his head. “There’s mention of the boat blowing up, but no more than that. Perhaps I should go to see Luis myself.”

  The Luis in question was undoubtedly the controversial news director, Luis Díaz-Nuñez. If Michael was thinking of dropping by the studio, it could only mean he intended to go on the air to stir things up a bit. She could just envision the ensuing on-air shouting match.

  “Now?” she asked incredulously. “It is five thirty in the morning. You’ve just left a hospital … you will note that I did not mention that you were not even officially released from said hospital … and you’re wearing clothes that should have hit the laundry at least a month ago.”

  “It’s radio, amiga, not TV.”

  Molly prayed for patience. “Michael, has it occurred to you that perhaps after the disappearance of your uncle, the bombing of his boat, and a concussion, you might not be thinking too clearly?”

  “No,” he replied matter-of-factly. He looked at her and grinned. “Okay, I will not go to the radio station now.” He glanced out the window for the first time as she turned from Twelfth Avenue onto Seventh Street and headed west into the heart of Little Havana. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Where do you think?” she said dryly. “To Tío Miguel’s, where everyone has gathered for an all-night vigil. If I don’t put you on view in front of the family immediately, they’ll just come chasing down to Kendall after you the minute they discover that you’re out of the hospital.”