“Please, come quick,” she said in a voice that shook. “Duncan McBride is dead.”
Chapter 29
Jack broke the speed limit on every street between Key Biscayne and Little Havana, and he even rolled through a few stop signs. Even so, by the time he arrived, Julia’s house was an active crime scene.
An ambulance and the medical examiner’s van were parked on the street, a seeming contradiction between life and death. Police cars from Metro-Dade and the city of Miami cordoned off the immediate area, some with blue beacons swirling. Uniformed officers, crime scene investigators, and detectives were coming and going at the direction of the officer posted at the open front door. Jack parked next door in the driveway entrance to Señor Gomas’ Used-Tire Shop. A media van from Action News pulled up right next to him, joining four other local TV stations that had already staked out a position for a live report on their late-evening broadcasts. Curious neighbors watched from behind the yellow police tape that ran the length of the sidewalk.
“Swyteck!” a woman shouted.
Jack turned and saw Heather Brown from the Miami Tribune rushing toward him. Heather had covered several of Jack’s capital cases. He knew her well, and it was a safe bet that she’d been the first journalist on the scene.
“Can’t talk now,” he said, as he continued down the sidewalk. She walked with him.
“I need to talk to your client.”
Jack stopped. Heather was one of those reporters who seemed to know everything, but he was still curious: “How did you know that?”
“I’m addicted to police radio. Got here before the cops did. She said you told her not to talk to anyone.”
Jack had told her exactly that. He’d also told her to let the police inside and then hole up in a neighbor’s house across the street, down the block, or around the corner—anywhere but in the other half of the duplex, where it would be impossible for Julia to open the door and let Jack in without having a microphone and a TV camera shoved in her face. “I’m not going to let her talk to the media, Heather.”
“I got some good stuff,” she said. Heather was the ultimate horse trader—a client interview in exchange for the nuggets she’d coaxed out of a loose-lipped cop or investigator on the scene. She had Jack’s attention.
“Such as?”
“Victim’s name?”
“Lame.”
“Time of death, less than twelve hours.”
“You’re getting warm. I’ll think about it.”
“Hey! We had a deal.”
Heather had obviously never gone to law school. Jack stopped on the civilian side of the yellow police tape, flagged down a Metro-Dade officer, and asked to see Assistant State Attorney Phillip Arnoff. The Miami-Dade State Attorney’s Office always had a prosecutor on duty to cover a possible homicide investigation. After hanging up with Julia, Jack’s first call had been to a friend in the Homicide Unit, who’d told him Arnoff was on duty.
Arnoff and a homicide detective named Barnes came out of the house to see Jack. Heather made it clear that she wasn’t about to leave Jack’s side, so Jack, Arnoff, and the detective walked across the street to the neighbor’s house. The detective asked to question Julia, and Jack said he’d allow it as long as her lawyer was present. Jack, Julia, the prosecutor, and Detective Barnes gathered around the neighbor’s kitchen table. The detective asked standard questions—how she’d known the victim, how long, when she’d last seen him. Then Julia told him about the door being jimmied, Beatriz’s scream, and what she’d found in the bathroom.
“He was in the tub. There was so much blood.”
“You mean everywhere in the room?”
“No. On him and in the tub.”
Both the prosecutor and the detective were taking notes. “Do you have any idea who would want this man dead?” the detective asked.
“Have you already ruled out suicide?” asked Jack.
“A fair question,” said Arnoff. “The answer is no—that’s the medical examiner’s job.”
The detective smiled a little, clearly having something to add. “But I will tell you that I’ve been doing this for almost twenty years, and I’ve never seen a man slit his own throat from ear to ear so viciously that he nearly decapitated himself. So pardon me if my questions have a slight bias toward a homicide investigation.”
“Thanks for being so forthcoming,” said Jack. “You can answer, Julia.”
“No. I don’t know who would want Mr. McBride dead.”
The detective turned the page on his notepad. “How long were you out of the house before you came home and found Mr. McBride’s body?”
“Pretty long.”
“A few hours?”
“No. Since the seventh of January.”
That raised the detective’s eyebrows. “Three and a half weeks? That’s a long vacation.”
“It was no vacation.”
“Then what was it?”
She told him, and Jack explained her immigration status.
“I see,” said the detective.
“Interesting,” said the prosecutor. “Was Mr. McBride in any way involved in your deportation case, Ms. Rodriguez?”
“I’ll answer that,” said Jack. He figured he might as well be straight about it: Arnoff would find out soon enough, and Jack didn’t want it to appear that he was trying to hide anything.
“Duncan McBride was a witness against my client. He claimed that Julia was fired for stealing his wallet. That was a lie. He fired her because she rejected his sexual advances.”
“I see,” said the detective.
“Interesting,” said Arnoff.
It was becoming their new favorite routine.
“Mr. Swyteck,” said Arnoff, “would you mind giving me the name of the Department of Homeland Security lawyer who is handling Ms. Rodriguez’s case?”
“Jerrell,” said Jack. “Simone Jerrell.”
“Thank you. That’s helpful. Is there anything else you’d like to tell us, Ms. Rodriguez?”
“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking me. How could I? I just got out of detention.”
“Fair point,” said Arnoff. “But I put a lot of stock in motive, and in my experience, you don’t have to be free and out on the street to want a man dead and get something done about it. So pardon me in advance if I don’t let this be the end of it.” Arnoff tucked away his pen.
Julia was about to respond to the insinuation, but Jack stopped her.
“I need to get back to the crime scene,” said the detective.
They rose and shook hands. Jack gave each man his business card. “Call me, not my client, if there’s any follow-up.”
“Oh, we’ll follow up,” Arnoff said, tucking Jack’s card away. “Count on it.”
The men said good night. Jack walked them out the front door and watched them cross the street to the crime scene. Julia joined him on the front step.
“I don’t want them talking to Beatriz,” she said.
“Neither do I.”
“Will they?”
Jack was still watching the assistant state attorney on the other side of the street, but he was thinking of his talk with Beatriz in the hospital, just the two of them. Arnoff was on his cell phone as he ducked beneath the police tape, and Jack wondered if he was already talking to ICE.
“They will,” said Jack, “over my dead body.”
Chapter 30
Julia was back to cleaning houses. Condo cleaning, technically speaking. Miami had more condos than coconuts, and it was Julia’s impression that in a metropolitan area of five million people, no more than seven or eight of them actually picked up after themselves.
Their duplex in Little Havana remained a crime scene for two days, and even after the police padlock was removed, she and Beatriz refused to go back. Theo and one of his busboys from Cy’s Place volunteered to move their belongings to Cecilia’s place, where Julia could have the spare bedroom and Beatriz would sleep on an air mattress in the living roo
m until they could find a new place. The landlord wouldn’t refund Julia’s deposits, but she couldn’t bring herself to put another one of her problems on Jack. Cleaning two condos a day was the only way to stay financially afloat.
“Hey, Cinderella. Back to work.”
Stella had caught her gazing out the floor-to-ceiling window, admiring Miami’s skyline from a glass box on the seventy-third floor of the tallest residential tower south of New York City.
“Oh, sorry.”
“I was kidding,” Stella said with a little laugh. It was her full-time job to keep the apartment immaculate for the Colombian owner who visited once a month, and for his mistress, who lived there year-round. Stella had heard about Julia’s situation at their church, and she’d been able to convince Señorita-Sleeps-Till-Noon that she needed a second housekeeper five hours a week.
“San Salvador has three tall buildings,” said Julia. “The tallest is about that high,” she said, pointing to a thirty-story high-rise on the bay. I was counting how many are taller than that.”
“How many are there?”
“I was at thirty-three when you busted me. I lost count.” Her gaze drifted back to a city of glass on a blue-green bay that glistened in the sun on a cloudless afternoon. “It’s so unbelievably beautiful.”
Stella smiled with her eyes. “I hope you and your daughter get to stay.”
“Thanks. Me, too.”
Julia finished at five o’clock. Stella stayed every night till eight and cooked dinner, just in case la señorita deigned to eat, which she usually didn’t. Julia took her forty dollars in cash, thanked Stella profusely, and rode the express elevator down to the lobby. Two security guards kept an eye on her as she left the building, either checking her out or perhaps making sure that she didn’t walk out the door with a piece of museum-quality artwork.
Her bus stop was at the westerly bend on Brickell Avenue, where the relatively quiet residential stretch of the south Brickell area yielded to the mixed-used high-rises and office buildings of north Brickell and Miami’s bustling Financial District. Nestled in the midst of towering giants of steel and glass on the waterfront was St. Jude Melkite Catholic Church, one of the area’s few remaining historical buildings. Over the decades, St. Jude’s had managed to withstand several powerful hurricanes and, even more impressive, a string of building booms that sent countless other architectural gems the way of the wrecking ball. Julia had a twenty-minute wait for her bus, so she stepped into the chapel, admiring the Romanesque arches surrounding a beautifully tinted ceiling as blue as the South Florida sky. Painted icons graced the altar and surrounding walls, and arched windows of stained glass commemorated various saints. Rows of old wooden pews stretched before her. She knelt before the cross and the Sacred Heart.
From all accounts, Duncan McBride had suffered a terribly violent death. He’d been missing for days. Ligature marks around his wrists and ankles indicated that he’d been taken alive and held captive. Multiple bruises and cigarette burns on his arms and chest confirmed torture. The amount of blood in the bathtub meant that his killer had taken him there alive and then slit his throat. And yet Julia couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry for him. For that, she prayed for God’s forgiveness.
Julia left the church and walked to the corner. The sun hung low in the sky somewhere beyond the trees and buildings, and long shadows stretched across Brickell’s four divided lanes. Two Haitian women were waiting at the bus stop when Julia got there. Their traditional maid uniforms removed all mystery as to what they were doing on Brickell Avenue. Julia took a seat on the bench and watched the traffic pass.
It was then that she saw him.
Julia wasn’t completely sure at first glance. Passing cars and the palm trees in the landscaped median gave her a less-than-perfect line of sight to the other side of Brickell Avenue, but a second look confirmed that it was him. He was standing on the sidewalk beneath the sprawling limbs of an old oak, staring straight at her. Julia didn’t know what came over her, but she followed her first impulse. She went in the opposite direction.
Julia walked quickly, as fast as she could without breaking into a dead run, her stride lengthening as she approached the church. She hurried up the stone steps, pushed the heavy door open, and ducked inside. She knew he had seen her, seen where’d she’d gone, but she prayed that he would get the message and understand that Miami was her clean slate, that she’d left “what might have been” in San Salvador, and that she didn’t want him to follow.
The door opened; her prayers were unanswered.
Julia fell against the wall, on the verge of hyperventilation, and it wasn’t from the attempted getaway. The door closed behind him. He just stood there, looking at her the way only he looked at her.
“Hugo,” she said, breathing out his name. “What are you doing here?”
Jack rode with Theo to Julia’s house in Little Havana. The busboy who’d agreed to help Theo move out Julia’s belongings was a no-show. Jack was curious to see how Miami-Dade homicide had left the crime scene, so he pinch-hit. A crime scene cleanup crew was inside the house when they arrived. A man dressed in coveralls was carrying out a bucket of something.
“Damn, that was a lot of blood,” the man said.
That was saying something, coming from a crime scene cleaner in Miami.
Fortunately for Jack’s back, Julia and Beatriz didn’t have much. He and Theo cleaned out the kitchen first. The only furnishings in the living room that didn’t belong to the landlord were a couple of lawn chairs and a small bookcase containing Beatriz’s schoolbooks. They left the bedroom for last, which was just personal items, towels and linens, and their clothing.
“I can’t touch these things,” said Theo.
He was staring down into a drawer of undergarments.
“Don’t look at me,” said Jack.
Jack opened a suitcase. Theo removed the drawer from the nightstand and dumped everything inside—no hands. As he shoved the drawer back into place, he noticed the framed photograph on the nightstand, next to the lamp. He picked it up for a closer look.
“Who’s this guy?” asked Theo.
Jack checked it out. There were only two people in the five-by-seven photograph, Julia and a man.
“It’s not her husband,” said Jack.
“How do you know?”
“Because I recognize the place. It’s outside the bakery where Julia worked in San Salvador. The manager told me her husband was banned from going anywhere near there.”
“A woman doesn’t keep a photograph on her nightstand for no reason. And they seem pretty chummy for two people who just work together.”
Theo handed the photo to him, and Jack couldn’t disagree. Julia’s arms were around the man’s neck, and her head was on his shoulder.
“And what’s with that tattoo on his neck?” said Theo. “Eighteen? Looks like gang shit to me.”
“All the men who work in the bakery are former gang members,” said Jack.
Theo looked out the window. He seemed disappointed. More than disappointed. Jack put the framed photograph in the suitcase with Julia’s other belongings.
“Theo, can I give you some advice?”
Theo didn’t answer, but he was smart enough to know what Jack was going to say.
“I like Julia,” said Jack. “Love her daughter. I want to help them. But you should forget about Julia. She’s a little dangerous. Even for you, I think she’s dangerous.”
Chapter 31
“Funny, isn’t it?” asked Hugo.
They were in the church vestibule, their faces lit only by flickering sconce candles and the iron chandelier high overhead.
“Funny?” said Julia.
Hugo took a step toward her, but she recoiled, which made him stop. “Funny that I would catch up with you,” he said, glancing at their surroundings, “in a church.”
Julia knew what he meant. The last time they’d seen each other was in the Iglesia Ebenezer. It was the day before she and Beatriz
had boarded a bus for Guatemala, their first step to Miami.
“You didn’t even tell me you were leaving,” said Hugo.
“I couldn’t,” she said, struggling. “I couldn’t tell anyone.”
“You can tell me anything, Julia.”
She shook her head. “Jorge came back.”
“I knew it. You didn’t have to leave because of him. I told you I would take care of him.”
“No!” she said. “That’s not what I want. That’s not who I want you to be.”
“Want?”
Julia looked away. “Wanted,” she said, underscoring the past tense.
Silence hung between them, and she worried that if she didn’t say something fast, he would come to her. “Are you here legally?”
“What do you think?”
“What did you come here for?”
“You know what for.”
Julia took a breath. “You have to go back. You can’t stay in Miami.”
“Since when do you work for ICE?”
That made her chuckle, and they both smiled. Then Hugo turned serious. “I’m not going back to El Salvador,” he said. “Unless you do.”
“Please, don’t stay in Miami.”
“I can’t promise you that I won’t.”
“It’s too dangerous, Hugo. I think Jorge is here. It’s no different now than it was in San Salvador. Jorge never lets go of his things. If he thinks you came here for me, he will kill you.”
“Let him try.”
“Don’t talk tough,” she said angrily. “That tattoo on your neck, that’s not who you are. Jorge is different. He fooled me for a while, but that didn’t last. Jorge is Eighteen to the core, now more than ever. And he’s never going back.”
“I knew all of that before I came here, Julia.”
“Then you should never have come.”
“I’m glad I came.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“No,” he said, his expression tightening. “But Jorge has lost his home-field advantage. May the best man win.”
Hugo gave her that look again, that smile that would come from the other side of the Ebenezer bakery and make her feel safe. Then he pushed open the door and left her alone in the back of the church. For a moment she stayed where she was, leaning against the wall, and then she hurried out the door and called to him from the top step.
The Girl in the Glass Box Page 13