[Deborah Jones 01.0] Miami Requiem

by J. B. Turner

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘I’ve been through all that stuff. And you can make it. You’ve just got to like yourself a little bit more. Lighten up.’

  ‘That’s what everyone at works says. They think I work too hard and don’t have fun. But I don’t want to go out partying with them. I don’t feel ready.’

  ‘I know, honey. One step at a time.’

  Deborah looked up for a moment to sneak a glance at the soccer game. ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

  Deborah smiled and lightly slapped the back of Faith’s hand. ‘Behave.’

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘Brett phoned.’

  ‘Hell is he wanting?’

  ‘He wanted to get back together.’

  ‘You kidding, after what he did to you? You should’ve told him to get lost.’

  ‘Look, I’m feeling kinda fragile over this whole thing. He was being as nice as‌—‌’

  ‘I’m sure he was, the rat.’

  Deborah shook her head, wishing Faith would cut her some slack. ‘I’m mixed up,’ she said. ‘I want us to get back together again, but I feel so let down by what he did. I know he felt bad because he couldn’t protect me. He’s a good guy, honestly.’

  ‘There’s no such thing.’

  Deborah shot her a sharp look. ‘What about William Craig? You feel the same about him?’

  ‘You know I don’t mean that.’

  ‘I want him off death row.’ Deborah finished her drink and glanced at her watch. ‘I gotta go.’

  ‘Look, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘It’s not that, but I’m due at the office early tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure, honey, I understand. Don’t wanna hang around for the sports quiz they’re running after the game?’

  ‘Maybe next week.’ Deborah kissed Faith on the cheek. ‘Thanks for listening.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. See you Saturday.’

  Deborah said her goodbyes to the rest of the team and walked out into the still night air. As she got into her convertible, her cell phone rang. She reached into her bag for the phone and wondered if it was Sam Goldberg calling from one of his favorite haunts‌—‌the Tobacco Road Bar‌—‌to congratulate her again.

  But the voice on the other end was an educated-sounding Englishwoman. ‘I’ve just read your story on the Internet about William Craig with great interest, Miss Jones.’

  Must’ve been diverted from the office phone to her cell. Deborah switched off her engine. ‘Can you call back in the morning, please?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but this is urgent. I think I have a story for you. I’d like to meet you in person to discuss it.’

  Deborah closed her eyes and wondered if it was another Ricky Martin nut. ‘Where’re you speaking from?’

  ‘The Mandarin Oriental. Do you know it?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The woman sighed like she was losing patience. ‘I’m not used to being asked to repeat myself, Miss Jones. I’ll say it again, do you know the Mandarin Oriental?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not far from where I am just now.’

  ‘And you’re the Deborah Jones who wrote this story?’

  ‘Yes‌—‌’

  ‘Don’t be late. Meet me at the Martini bar in the Oriental lobby at ten sharp.’

  ‘Ma’am, I don’t know anything about you.’

  ‘For now, all you have to know is that I’ll be wearing a white T-shirt and jeans,’ the woman said. ‘You’ll recognize me, I promise. Before I forget, bring something to record our conversation.’

  It was only a short ride from the bar, across downtown towards the lights shimmering from the concrete and glass towers where the Mandarin was located. Deborah crossed the causeway and headed for Brickell Key, also known as Claughton Island, a man-made triangular island south of the mouth of the Miami River.

  She pulled up outside the hotel, just before ten. She felt sweat on her back as she handed her keys to a valet. A concierge held open the glass door.

  Deborah was wearing a black linen suit, carried a stylish briefcase, and felt good after the evening’s training session. The air-conditioning cooled her skin as she walked past the marble front desk into the soaring lobby.

  Harp music mingled with the odd tinkling of Martini glasses in the M-Bar. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed great views over the bay and of the countless lights of the Miami skyline. It was as if the people lived in a hermetically sealed universe, far from the pulsating beat and Latin influence of the city. Even further from Overtown.

  Deborah’s gaze was drawn to a woman in her late thirties sitting alone by the windows.

  Was she the one? She looked vaguely familiar.

  The woman stared out over the bay and sipped a cocktail as if she hadn’t a care in the world. All around, in the candlelight, couples chatted and flirted.

  Everyone apart from the woman seemed to be paired off. Deborah walked over, briefcase in hand. The woman looked frail and her tight white T-shirt revealed pert breasts. Her faded Levis looked a couple of sizes too big on her frame.

  ‘Hi.’ The woman held out a bony hand and smiled. ‘You’ll be Deborah Jones?’

  Deborah nodded and shook hands.

  The woman’s eyes were lifeless as she ran a hand through her messy auburn locks. ‘You look surprised.’

  Deborah sat down, briefcase on her lap. Close up, the woman looked more fragile and beautiful than she did on the big screen. She had eyes like faded emeralds. Her high cheekbones emphasized her red lips. Her arms were toned.

  Rachel Harvey was one of Hollywood’s hottest and most volatile properties. She’d starred in most of the top-grossing films in the last decade. Bust-ups on film sets were her thing, if you believed the Enquirer.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she said. ‘You look like you need one.’ Rachel Harvey’s accent was cut-glass, just like her film roles. She held up a black linen menu. ‘They’ve got two hundred and fifty kinds of Martini. I’m working my way through them. Take your pick.’

  ‘Just a Diet Coke, thanks.’

  Harvey ordered the drinks.

  ‘So, you’ll be thinking,’ she said, ‘what did I do to deserve this unexpected pleasure?’

  Deborah nodded and sipped her Diet Coke.

  ‘If you can take out your tape recorder and pens and paper, I can let you in on my little secret.’

  Deborah rummaged in her briefcase and brought out her mini recorder, paper and pens for shorthand. What could Rachel Harvey tell her that related to her story? ‘Okay,’ she said, and switched on the tape recorder. ‘Ready when you are.’

  ‘Your article about William Craig was moving. Must’ve been, because I cried.’ Rachel Harvey glanced at the tape recorder. ‘I rarely cry. Do enough of that in front of the cameras.’ She took another long sip at her cocktail. ‘I read the article on my computer at home this morning.’

  ‘Where exactly is home?’

  ‘Upper East Side of Manhattan, but I still like to keep up to date with what’s happening down here.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I lived here briefly in the early 1990s. Before I go any further, I need to fill you in on my previous life for this to make any sense.’

  Deborah looked up from her notes. ‘What do you mean?’

  Rachel Harvey licked her lips and glanced out over Biscayne’s sparkling water. ‘I want to tell you what I did before I was famous. I’m originally from New Cross in South London. That mean anything to you?’

  Deborah shook her head.

  ‘Didn’t think it would. For your information, it’s a shithole. Gary Oldman’s from there, so it can’t be all bad, but this is not the accent I was brought up with. My mother, God bless her, worked in a bar. Scrimped and scraped to send me to elocution lessons hoping they’d pay off one day. Thought a working-class accent wouldn’t get me far.’


  ‘Didn’t do Michael Caine any harm.’

  Rachel Harvey smiled and took another drink. ‘I went to live in New York in the mid-1980s. Some hellhole on the Lower East Side. I thought with my new posh accent I’d get spotted immediately. I’d seen Joan Collins do it in Dynasty and thought, why not me? And wouldn’t you know it, I got lucky. Got my big break and never looked back. There are literally hundreds of wannabe actresses in New York. Every one drop-dead gorgeous and would kill for my luck. And I mean kill. Think about it. How could a piece of white trash like me go to the top of the queue on the other side of the Atlantic?’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Deborah said, ‘but what’s this got to do with William Craig or my story?’

  ‘I’m coming to that.’ Rachel Harvey finished her drink and her eyes got heavier. ‘I enrolled at the Actors’ Studio in New York. Things weren’t easy. Waitressing at night in midtown to make the rent. I was star-struck. I was also dumb. Didn’t realize that most people wanting to get into the movies head to LA.’

  Deborah nodded.

  ‘Where I worked, the clientele had cash to burn. Remember, by now this is the late 1980s. Conspicuous consumption. They tipped well. Wall Street guys thinking they were Charlie Sheen. One night a guy came in. He was the only customer. Good-looking. Young. I was supposed to lock up with the manager who was in the back counting the takings. This guy asked if I wanted a drink. I refused, said I didn’t date customers, that kind of line. Said I needed my beauty sleep.’

  Rachel Harvey’s lower lip quivered and tears streamed down her fine features, smudging her mascara. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You mind if we carry on this conversation in private?’

  • • •

  Rachel Harvey’s suite was on the twentieth floor and was, of course, the hotel’s finest‌—‌’The Oriental Suite’. The private balcony spanned the full length of the huge room and boasted the best views of downtown, the waters of Biscayne below.

  Deborah stepped out into the sticky air and looked across the city, inky darkness overhead.

  Wonder where Brett is? She hoped it wouldn’t be dangerous, but knowing him, he’d opt for a tough assignment instead of easy street. Always did like a challenge.

  The smell of the Everglades drifted in on the breeze, grassy and damp.

  Rachel Harvey joined her, carrying a glass of champagne and a Diet Coke. Her hair blew across her face and she laughed. ‘Sure you don’t want champagne?’

  ‘I don’t drink.’ Deborah didn’t mention that she had given up liquor because she never wanted to feel out of control again.

  ‘Smart girl.’

  Deborah turned and looked through the floor-to-ceiling glass back into the suite. It was lit by huge lamps, which cast a golden glow around the room. ‘Real nice place you’ve got, Rachel.’ Wonder what her colleagues in the newsroom would make of this. Come to think of it, what would Faith and the Overtown girls make of it?

  They stepped back inside, and Rachel gave Deborah a tour of her suite.

  The luxurious bathroom featured an oversized shower, a free-standing tub, a floor-to-ceiling window and Bulgari bathroom fittings. A huge bedroom was separated from the bathroom by a rice-paper sliding door. There were plasma-screen TVs in every room. The suite also had a state-of-the-art media room with theater-style seating.

  ‘A girl could get used to this,’ Deborah said, sitting down on a cream sofa.

  ‘You wanna continue our conversation?’ Rachel asked. ‘Sure.’

  Deborah started up her recorder and took out her pens and notepad, while Rachel picked up the champagne bottle and poured herself another glass.

  ‘Something happened to me in New York which has dogged me for years.’ Rachel slid the bottle back into the ice bucket on the marble table.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Harvey seemed reluctant to go on. ‘As I said earlier, there was only myself, the manager and this young guy. The guy was persistent. “Want to come back to my place and party?” That kind of thing. Well, I joined him for a nightcap. Second mistake.’

  Deborah said nothing.

  ‘He spiked my drink.’ Rachel ran her hand through her silky hair and locked onto Deborah’s gaze. ‘Woke up bleeding in some alley near Times Square. The bastard raped me.’

  Deborah’s mind was suddenly filled with men’s voices, drunken laughter, screams and a blinding white light which shone on her as she was tied to the bed. Animals.

  ‘I spent two days in hospital.’

  Deborah sat dumbstruck.

  ‘Your story about Mr Craig being a war hero struck a chord with me.’ She switched on one of the huge TVs with a remote control and flicked distractedly to an old black and white movie Deborah had never seen. Bogart was in it. Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. She then went quiet for nearly a minute. ‘It was after reading it that I realized I’d been a complete fool.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I decided not to press charges against the guy who did it.’ The words seemed to skid across Deborah’s brain in slow motion.

  ‘A company, a powerhouse LA talent firm contacted me out of the blue. They signed me, but only when it was too late did I realize their one proviso was that I kept quiet. From then on, my career took off. Tried to forget all about it. That is, until this morning. Your story brought it all back.’

  Rachel Harvey took a deep breath. ‘The guy that raped me was the same one Mr Craig killed,’ she said.

  Deborah sat transfixed.

  ‘Less than six months after I was attacked, Joe O’Neill did the same to Mr Craig’s granddaughter. If I’d taken the case to trial, it would never have happened. Do you understand?’ Deborah nodded.

  ‘I felt physically sick when I read about how that poor man is going to be executed. And all for killing that beast. Should have been given a decoration.’

  Deborah felt the same about Mr Craig. His concern for justice for his grandchild and women like her was more important to him than his own liberty.

  Deborah’s mind flashed forward. It was a fantastic story, but could it ever be told? ‘This may ruin you, Rachel.’

  ‘I’m way past caring. What that old man did was right. It’s crazy that he’s on death row. My story proves he killed a double rapist. You think about that.’

  Deborah wondered if she should call Goldberg about the revelations. Probably best to. By now, Rachel Harvey had closed her eyes and was humming a show tune to herself as if oblivious to her surroundings. ‘My own boss has his doubts about the veracity of the trials of Craig and O’Neill.’

  Rachel opened her sleepy eyes. ‘Your boss is correct. You think that with all my money I can’t afford the best private investigators?’

  ‘So who’s responsible?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know‌—‌the senator?’

  ‘He’s got the money, the motive, and the manpower.’

  ‘Manpower?’

  ‘A guy called Paulie Fachetti is his link. He’s top guy in the Miami Mob. Was once the underboss of the Gambinos in Los Angeles. Would wine and dine me at all these top restaurants in Beverly Hills, twice a year, just to remind me of my obligation to keep quiet.’ This was the first time she’d heard of Mob links. It seemed far-fetched. Maybe Rachel had had one too many drinks?

  ‘When did you first meet him?’

  ‘Couple of days after I got out of hospital. Made it clear who he was and what he could do for me. He’s a small, weedy little shit.’ Rachel shivered and finished her champagne. ‘You think the Miami Herald’s got the balls to put that on the front page?’

  Deborah tracked Goldberg down to a nearby jazz-and-blues bar, one block west of Brickell Avenue. She had to shout loud as a B.B. King song blared in the background. ‘Stay right there, I’m on my way,’ he said.

  Goldberg arrived less than fifteen minutes later. The actress told him the story again and he listened in silence. Rachel Harvey cracked open another bot
tle of champagne and poured a couple of flutes.

  ‘Ms Harvey, I’ll be frank,’ Goldberg said. He sipped his drink. ‘This story worries me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Have you thought through the consequences? Both career-wise and the possibility of putting yourself in danger?’

  ‘Look, it’s time the world knew,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m financially secure for life.’ She looked at Goldberg through dreamy eyes. ‘All I ask is that you print the story. It’s yours as an exclusive.’

  Goldberg frowned and the lines on his forehead bunched tight. ‘We’ll have to do some checking.’

  ‘Will you promise?’

  Goldberg put his glass down and Deborah noticed that he wore a wedding band. ‘We’ll run the story past our executive editor tomorrow morning. Maybe we’ll go with it the day after. Can’t promise any more than that.’

  ‘Make sure it happens.’ Rachel Harvey was really slurring her words now. ‘Let’s not let Mr Craig down again.’

  The elevator door opened and Deborah and her boss stepped out into the lobby, to the familiar sounds of harp music, gentle laughter, and the tinkling of cocktail glasses from the M-Bar.

  Neither paid any attention to the two thickset men in well-tailored suits waiting to go up.

  • • •

  Just after two A.M. Deborah lay on her sofa, as CNN carried details of a Palestinian bombing in the West Bank. She felt herself drift away into a deep sleep. Before long, the nightmares were there.

  Two men laughing. Hands round her throat. More laughing. Screaming. Red-smeared vision. A face she knew. Please stop, someone was shouting. Was it her? He reeked of bourbon.

  The excited voice of a CNN reporter woke Deborah and she sat bolt upright. Her heart raced and she was drenched in sweat.

  ‘I’ll say again,’ the young reporter said, ‘Rachel Harvey is dead. She was found just before one this morning.’

  Deborah felt her blood run cold.

  ‘No one knows how she died. Police say she’s fallen to her death in a tragic accident.’