He swung into the customer parking lot of a big waterfront restaurant that features white-glove service, tropical rum drinks and fancy dinners. The place was still open, and he sat quietly, watching. Inside, the lights were soft and the music mellow, a romantic place to dine. A narrow wooden bridge stretched from the entrance to the parking area, across a pond with ducks. The landscaping was lavish, red passionflowers with their spidery tendrils, birds of paradise and—palm trees.
Palms are making a comeback, he thought. The place known for palm trees and beaches had had little of either for a while. Lethal yellowing disease had killed nearly all of South Florida’s picture-postcard coconut palms, and Miami Beach had eroded away to a twelve-foot strip of sand at high tide. But a blight-resistant palm had finally been developed and the federal government had spent millions to replenish the beach. They had dredged shells and coral rock from the ocean floor, pulverized the mixture and dumped it ashore. The result is not as fine as sand and will occasionally cut your feet. But spread it out into a big broad beach, and the tourists, they don’t know the difference. They see a wide beach and palm trees and think Mother Nature did it. Just bring your cash and credit cards, Alex thought. There is one born every minute.
He watched a couple emerge from the restaurant. Holding hands, smiling, bellies full. What’s next? he thought. The man was a big guy, a horny bastard too, shoving her up against his car, making sure he got his money’s worth before they even got out of the parking lot. All giggles, she’s loving it. Good times tonight. Alex was almost tempted to join them.
Nothing is more fun or thrilling, he thought, than watching people who don’t know you can see them. They act natural for a change, he told himself, instead of being such goddamn hypocrites and phonies. He still thought about that house on the island, the pretty girl asleep, never knowing he was in her room with the power in him to do any damn thing he pleased. Nobody could have stopped him. Now, that was a turn-on.
A flash of blond hair caught his eye, inside, at a table. For an instant it looked like the bitch. His stomach tightened, filled with fury, a sensation like ice cubes pressed against his groin. He knew, of course, that it could not be, that it was not her. Yet his eyes were riveted now, straining the distance. They left their table, moving toward the entrance. He would soon see. She wore white, her light hair pushed up in swirls. Dangling earrings dancing in the light. The man held the door. Alex sat frozen in the warm night air, his hand pressed against the cold metal weight of the gun in his belt.
She stepped out into the night smells and shadows. She was taller, a little heavier. It was not the bitch, but he despised her anyway, for the resemblance. Look how she holds her head and turns to him, Alex thought. He’s nothing, a dark-haired, middle-aged man with a little paunch under a good suit.
Nice car. They climb right in, no monkey business. The man jams the key directly into the ignition, and they are moving. I could run them off the road, he thought. I could do anything I choose to them, but what is there to gain? Something had to make it worth the effort. He sat quietly, to think and to soak in the warm wet sea of night. There are so many more stars in the sky out here, he thought. Out in the Glades, far from the city lights, you can see even more. He wondered what the Indians still out there did on nights like this? What they thought. It would be nice to smoke a little dope or have a drink, he thought. It was that kind of night. He was sure that was what some of the kids parked down by the beach were doing.
He decided to see, and started the engine. The dark narrow street to the beach seemed carved out of jungle that overwhelmed both sides of the roadway and mingled in the tree tops overhead. It was like driving through a dense green tunnel. What a place to get lost in, he thought, if you like scorpions and snakes. What a place to leave something you don’t want found. He would have to remember that.
He stopped at the edge of the beach and decided to walk along the tree line, where an occasional car was parked. He placed his keys up on the back wheel, where he could snatch them quickly for immediate departure should that become necessary. At the edge of the paved parking lot his running shoes crunched on scattered fragments of shattered glass bottles—within sight of a trash bin. He hated that. The slobs think it a treat to smash their Coors and Corona bottles on the pavement. The goddamn pigs—he would relish rubbing their faces in it. Some people are really disgusting, he thought.
It felt good to stretch his legs and stroll in the night breezes off the water. There were lights on the horizon, it looked like a freighter. The downtown skyline glittered in the distance. It was quiet, except for the sounds of the crickets and sea birds. Then laughter from down on the sand. A couple on a blanket. On the Fourth of July the beach had been blanket-to-blanket people who had come to watch the fireworks. The holiday fireworks had ended weeks ago. This couple was busy working on their own.
He stepped quietly, as close as he could, then crouched to watch. They were teenagers. She was demurring and then giggling, every step of the way. He was undaunted, working diligently on removing her clothes. Her bra was unfastened, her breasts exposed. It was a tug-of-war. Every time he lifted her blouse, she giggled and pulled it back down. She made other sounds when he nibbled her nipples. Now the blouse was off, in one swift motion, over her head. Amazing, in the bright light from the stars you could even see the bikini lines where her suntan ended. They had a bottle of wine. Alex noted that the kid was imaginative enough to trickle some over her breasts and lick it off. Loud smacking and sucking sounds. Both were laughing and squirming around a lot. Nothing is nicer than a hard teenage body, Alex thought. The boy’s shirt was open, then off. A good-looking, muscular boy, like that dumb Thorne kid who’d tried to stop him on the island. The girl hesitated, trying to sit up, asking the time. The boy lied. She relaxed and went back to tonguing his ear and nudging his groin with her bare knee. His hands were busy, busy. Her skirt was down around her ankles. Little bikini panties—was he really trying to remove them with his teeth? What a kid, Alex thought.
Things were moving a lot faster now. Hey, didn’t anybody tell these kids about safe sex? What is this? Alex was having such a good time, vicarious as it might be, that without thinking, he laughed. He stifled it with the hand that was not on his crotch, but too late.
He was only a dozen feet away and the breeze, blowing in their direction, carried his little snorting sound.
“Mario!” Sudden panic was in her voice. “Somebody’s there!”
Mario rolled over, looked dazed, and saw Alex. “Son of a bitch!” he said. The words set off a frantic thrashing and a scrambling that Alex found comical, like a cartoon. Arms, legs and for an instant, a round white bottom shining pale in the dancing lights from sky and water. They were pulling on clothes so fast that the wine bottle was kicked over and gurgling in the sand. He saw the kid reach for it and grasp the bottle like a weapon.
Time to leave. Alex had been so engrossed that it took a moment to get his bearings and remember exactly where he had left the car. “Who is it, who is it?” Alex heard her say, some of the words muffled as she pulled her blouse down over her head. She sounded scared
“Son of a bitch,” the boy said again. Alex could scarcely blame him. The boy hopped around for a second, got his other leg in his trousers, pulled the zipper and flew in his direction.
Alex had bolted like a jackrabbit, but after the initial spurt he had settled down to a steady jog, watching, waiting to see what the boy would do. He had really hoped the kid would not be dumb enough to try to chase him.
But he did, clutching the bottle in his hand and yelling. “Hey, sicko, want a good look? Come on back here! I’ve got something to show you.”
They both ran, beneath the stars in the dark, the warm sand under their feet. Alex was panting and perspiring, more out of excitement than fear. The kid was fast. Alex knew he was in good shape, but the boy seemed to be gaining, probably propelled by frustration and anger and the need to show off for his little girlfriend, wh
o was calling, “Mario, don’t leave me here! Dammit, Mario! Come back!”
Her voice was quavering and moving now, like she was running too. Swell, Alex thought, both of them. He would have to shoot them both. Sex and death—they were so much alike. He never thought of one without the other. He concentrated on his breathing and scanned the empty beach for trouble as he ran. If other people heard the commotion and called the cops, he could have a problem. There is only one way off the Key by car. In emergencies, Alex thought, the cops radio ahead and the bridge tender raises the fucking thing. Then nobody leaves the island until they know what the hell is going on and find whoever they’re looking for.
He remembered the parking lot and quit beelining for his car, veering off, ducking under some low-hanging vines and pounding onto the pavement. He could hear the kid behind him, breathing even harder than the huffing and puffing he had been doing on his beach blanket. Alex darted into the lot, across the broken bottles, the boy close behind him. He heard the cry of pain, turned, saw him hopping, and then he was down. He had run right onto the glass with both bare feet. Alex jogged back to the car, exhilarated.
He snatched the waiting keys off the back tire and slid into the driver’s seat. “Mario, where are you?” It was the girl. Those two never give up, Alex thought. She was running right toward the car. He flipped on the key and floored it. The wheels spun in the sand, but the car did not move. He had hit it too hard, the back tires spun, whined and dug themselves deeper into the loose sand. Christ! The girl looked uncertain now, but was still coming, head-on. “Mario? Is that you? Don’t leave me.”
The engine roared and the tires turned crazily in the sand with a sickening, zizzing sound. Cars get stuck out here all the time and need tow trucks to pull them out, Alex thought. How would he explain this to AAA? How would he explain this to Mario, who was most likely limping in his direction at that very moment?
He tried to remember the proper technique. The girl, her dark hair tangled, was still trotting determinedly in his direction. Despite his situation, he managed to note that though she was wearing her blouse and skirt she had never put her bra back on. He wondered about the bikini pants, then reversed gears and gently gave it the gas, using a little more control, turning the wheel. The car jumped back, then lurched forward as he hit the horn and the lights. She was right in front of him. The lights blinded her. Her eyes were big, her mouth open, but he could not hear the scream. At the last moment she threw her hands out in front of her. He cut the wheel hard and the car whomped her to one side, off the right front fender. It was a soft thud of a sound, like hitting a big rag doll. It was no high-speed impact. He looked back as he cut the lights and headed toward the main road. She was up on all fours, swaying, probably not hurt bad, but too dazed to even try to read his license tag.
It worked out just fine, he thought, flicking his headlights back on and pulling cautiously onto the causeway. It was nice to use smarts, instead of the cold steel of a gun or a knife. And it had worked out especially well for the teenagers. They would never forget him—or this night. They almost had sex, and they almost died—sex and death. Of course they would never know how close they came. He wondered how they would explain what happened at the beach to their families. He hoped he had taught them a lesson.
Smiling to himself, he switched on some easy-listening music as he drove up onto the expressway and headed home.
Sixteen
The man was slim and blue-eyed. Sipping coffee and enjoying a sandwich, he looked at home in the stark and heartless interrogation room, like somebody’s visiting kid brother. He had confessed to the rape of a teenage schoolgirl attacked at knifepoint in her own bed. He had been caught in the act. Simmons, a detective in the sexual battery unit, took his statement and began to question him about other unsolved cases.
The young man glowed at the attention. He liked to boast and play word games. His mention of San Remo Island and a pretty girl who lived there had sent Simmons to the telephone to suggest that the man might be a suspect in a more serious crime. By the time the detectives in the Thorne homicide arrived, the man had confessed to another rape.
The suspect studied Rick and Jim curiously when Simmons asked if he would mind them joining the discussion.
“Why not?” he shrugged. A court reporter, a chubby, wavy-haired young woman whose impassive face reflected nothing, took down every word, her graceful fingers moving nimbly.
“We were talking about the victim last month, near Morningside Park…” Simmons said.
“Yeah, a stuck-up, tight-ass little number,” the suspect said, eyes hooded behind his cigarette smoke, watching to see how the new arrivals would take the remark. Rick and Jim showed no reaction. He had tried to speak to her twice, he said, from his moving car as she walked on the street near her home. She had ignored him. She found him impossible to ignore when he tickled her throat with the blade of his knife at three A.M. in her own bed.
“How did you get into the house that time?” Simmons asked.
“Sliding-glass door.” He slouched down in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him. “Love those sliding glass doors. Nothing to it.”
Rick saw the subtle glint of confirmation in Simmons’s eyes. That was how the rapist had entered the house.
He explained that he knew the right bedroom because he had watched her at night.
“Once I saw her at the Omni Mall and followed her home. A couple of other times I just parked down near the Boulevard and walked the neighborhood.”
“Were you ever challenged?” Simmons asked. “Did anybody ever stop and question what you were doing there?”
“Nah, I was wearing shorts, jogging shorts, headband, the works, so if I get stopped by the cops, I’m just getting my workout.” He looked pleased. “I don’t carry ID. If some cop stops me, I give a phony name and address. No way he can check. That way, if something comes up later, no cop even has my name. No law against jogging, and joggers don’t usually carry wallets.”
His eyes sought approval for his cleverness. “Hey, if it hadn’t been for that gung ho neighbor butting in the other night, I’d still be out there and you guys wouldn’t have a clue.”
“Probably so,” Simmons said mildly.
At the mention of the neighbor, Rick and Jim had exchanged brief glances. “He a friend of yours?” the suspect asked.
“No, never met the man,” Rick said.
“He’s the neighborhood block captin for Crime Watch,” Simmons explained. “A Vietman vet.”
“A crazy son of a bitch, running around with that shotgun,” the suspect said, shaking his head. “Somebody ought to do something about that guy.”
“You ever carry a gun?” Rick said quietly.
“Nah, they do nothing but get you in trouble. You don’t need ’em,” he said. “I took a few, when I found them in houses, but I got rid of them right away, sold ’em.”
“Who was buying?”
“A guy named Manny, down on Southwest Sixth Street and Second Avenue.”
“Does he have a business address, or were these street deals?”
“A business, he’s got a little shop.”
“One thing I’m curious about,” Rick said. “This all happened not far from the Boulevard, where hookers, all shapes, all sizes, all ages, parade up and down day and night. You could have had a hooker with no problem, so why did you go to all this time and trouble and run the risk?”
The suspect’s stare was incredulous. “I never paid for sex in my life!” He was obviously indignant at the suggestion. “You ever take a good look at most of those hookers? They’re dogs. You don’t know what the hell kind of diseases they’ve got, or if they’re gonna set you up to get robbed. I wouldn’t have nothing to do with them, man. Besides,” he gave a leering grin, “it’s more interesting this way. You know what I mean.”
He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “How about sending out for some cheeseburgers?”
“That can be arranged,” Simmons said agreeably. “The officers did advise you of your constitutional rights at the time of your arrest?”
“Yeah, so did you, twice.” He seemed impatient.
“Well, let’s go over it one more time.”
Jim stirred in his chair. Rick shot a warning glance at him. “Got to make a pit stop,” Jim said, and got up to go to the john.
“While you’re out there, maybe you can order the cheeseburgers,” the rapist said cheerfully. “I’ll take two, medium well, with catsup and pickles on the side. And, eh, a couple of Classic Cokes.”
Jim stared at the man. The room fell silent, all eyes focused on him. “Medium well, catsup and pickles on the side,” he repeated. “A couple of Classic Cokes.”
He shambled out of the room, telling himself that any man about to cop out to an unsolved homicide should have all the cheeseburgers he can eat.
He rejoined them a short time later, his broad face carefully arranged into what he hoped was an amiable expression. He watched the wavy-haired, chubby-cheeked court reporter. Neither she nor the suspect seemed at all uncomfortable at her presence, Jim thought, so why was he?
“So you’ve raped two or three of them,” Simmons was saying in a casual fashion.
The suspect put down his fresh cup of coffee, paused and looked slyly at his questioners. “Try adding a zero to that number,” he said. “You’ll be a lot closer.”
“Twenty or thirty?” Rick said, looking impressed. “All here in Miami?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out. You’re the detectives.” The suspect seemed amused by his attempt at wit. “Got any more cigarettes?”
Simmons slowly shoved a pack of Marlboros across the scarred wooden table top.
The rapist tapped the pack, slid out a smoke and waited for the attentive detective to light it for him. He let them chew awhile on his latest revelation. He would have preferred not being caught, but now that he was, he enjoyed the recognition, the attention and the break from the dismal jailhouse routine.
Nobody Lives Forever Page 10
