Bum Deal

by Paul Levine

  -28-

  The Timeline

  Detective George Barrios asked me to meet him for lunch at Versailles, the classic Cuban restaurant on Calle Ocho. Barrios had a fondness for rabo encendido, the oxtail stew. He also enjoyed eavesdropping on tourists from Kansas trying to speak Spanish to the servers.

  Sure enough, at the next table, a portly Anglo man was staring into his Frommer’s guide and telling the waiter, “Tendré el sándwich Cubano con mayonesa.”

  The waiter winced at the mention of mayonnaise, said his “Gracias,” and headed toward the kitchen.

  “There might be a break in the investigation,” Barrios said.

  That jump-started my pulse like a double shot of Cuban coffee. “Tell me, George.”

  “The timeline of the day Sofia disappeared has always been incomplete, and once Calvert hired David and Maddie, he’s been uncooperative.”

  “Moonlighting. Nice reference. You oughta be on Jeopardy!, George.”

  “What Calvert did tell us was this. They argued after breakfast, and she stormed out of the house, leaving by the front door at roughly nine thirty a.m.”

  “But the security camera at the front door wasn’t working, so there’s nothing to corroborate that story,” I said, remembering the missing-persons report.

  “Right. She had a ten a.m. Pilates class, and he thought that’s where she was going. He figured she’d cool down after the workout.”

  “Did she usually walk to Pilates?”

  “Class was on Arthur Godfrey Road. Maybe a ten-minute stroll from their house on North Bay Road. About ten twenty a.m., Calvert says a friend of Sofia’s calls the house. Tells him that Sofia isn’t at the class. The two women were supposed to go shopping afterward, and Sofia isn’t answering the cell. He tells the woman they’d quarreled, and he suspects she’s walking it off, getting it out of her system. Or maybe she took an Uber to Haulover Beach, where she liked to hang out topless. Or maybe she went shopping alone.”

  “Does the call check out?”

  “Sofia’s girlfriend confirms it to the letter.”

  “Did she notice anything unusual about Calvert on the phone?”

  “Good question, Counselor. You should have been a cop.” He paused a moment as a server delivered our meals: oxtail beef simmering in a broth of wine and tomato sauce for Barrios, plantain pie with picadillo—ground beef with raisins—for me, with a guava milkshake to wash it down. “She said he was the same old Clark, distant, aloof, detached.”

  “So what’s the break in the investigation?”

  “Slow down, Jake. When you make a stew, you have to stir the broth.” With that, he plucked a piece of oxtail beef from the stew and plopped it into his mouth, making a purring sound of contentment. “Calvert says he left the house in his Ferrari between eleven and eleven thirty, and in fact, the security video outside of the garage, which was working, shows him pulling out at eleven seventeen a.m. He says he came back home around nine o’clock that night, and the camera records the Ferrari pulling in at nine-oh-seven p.m.”

  “He went looking for her. You’ve already told me this.”

  “Patience, counselor. Patience. Can I have a bite of your picadillo?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Just stuck his fork into the middle of my bowl, where a mound of sweet ground beef simmered on top of a pile of mashed plantains.

  “Before he lawyered up and clammed up, Calvert told me his movements that day. Claimed he drove to Haulover Beach, then to Bal Harbour Shops, back down to the Fontainebleau, and checked out all their bars and restaurants.”

  “Told me the same thing. Basically, he stayed on the beach.”

  “By the way, if you were looking for your missing wife, wouldn’t you be calling her on your cell while you drove around town?”

  “Yeah. I’d call her and her friends.”

  “Zero calls on his cell phone once he left his house. Why do you suppose?”

  “He knows cops could later pinpoint his location from the towers picking up his calls.”

  “Leading you to believe?”

  “He lied. He didn’t stay on Miami Beach all day.”

  “I’m recommending you to the cop academy.” Barrios took a second bite of my lunch and continued, “I asked him for permission to remove the SunPass transmitter from his Ferrari, and lo and behold, he tells me it’s missing. Probably stolen when he left the car unlocked on Alton outside Epicure market. Or so he said.”

  “You subpoena the DOT?”

  “Of course. Took them a while. But yesterday I got the printout. The last time Calvert’s SunPass rang any bells was that very morning at eleven fifty-four a.m. when he entered the turnpike at Golden Glades.”

  I pictured his route, thirty-seven minutes from his house to the turnpike entrance. “He went across one of the causeways, north on I-95, and then onto the turnpike. No Haulover Beach. No Bal Harbour. No looking for Sofia.”

  “I figure he didn’t have to look for her if he’d put her dead body in the trunk before he left the house.”

  “That’d be a better theory if his trunk hadn’t been clean of fibers and blood.”

  “He’s a neat doc, not a messy one. Oh, I also figure he killed her the night before.”

  “What’s the evidence of that?”

  He pointed to his head with an empty fork. “Experience. Very few men kill their wives at nine in the morning.”

  I filed that information away. “You’re keeping me in suspense. Where’d Calvert exit the turnpike?”

  “It’s not readily apparent.”

  That puzzled me. “The SunPass pings when you exit. It would be in the DOT database.”

  “You weren’t listening. I said the last time the SunPass was used, Calvert was getting on the turnpike.”

  It took me a second. “Oh, shit. I see what happened.”

  At the next table, Tourist Guy was waving to the server with his empty glass of iced tea, saying, “Té helado, por favor.” Pronouncing it “fave-er.”

  “Go ahead, Counselor. What’s your theory?”

  “Calvert enters the turnpike, hears the beep, and realizes his SunPass just recorded his location. For a smart guy, he did a dumb thing. Probably cursed himself out. But if he’d killed his wife and her body’s in the trunk, he’s a little flustered. Realizing what he’s done, he rips the transmitter off his windshield and tosses it out the window. Or stows it in a trash can at the Fort Pierce rest stop. Either way, it’s gone by the time he pulls off an exit.”

  “Which is where, Counselor?”

  “How would I know? He’s got enough time to drive up to Pahokee, bury the body in a levee on Lake Okeechobee, and get home by nine at night.”

  “You thinking Calvert buried her in broad daylight?” Barrios said. “That’s your theory?”

  “I don’t know, George. There are some pretty remote places up there.”

  “I don’t think Calvert went that far north.” He gave me a little cop grin. “You want some dessert?”

  “Tres leches cake. What’s another thousand calories?”

  “Double-egg-yolk flan for me,” Barrios said.

  I signaled for our server and gave the order.

  “Okay, George. You’ve had your fun. Do you know where Calvert got off the turnpike?”

  “Every exit has a camera that takes photos of license plates. Files are uploaded to the cloud, kept for ninety days, then deleted. If you know the license plate you’re looking for . . .”

  “It would take a lot of manpower to check photos at all the exits for a couple hundred miles.”

  “Manpower, Jake? You’re living in the past. You plug in the license plate number and hit the ‘Search’ button. Maybe two minutes of work for each exit.”

  “Tell me, damn it, before these clogged arteries kill me.”

  “How you feeling, by the way?”

  “Fine, George! What exit?”

  “Number sixty-seven. Pompano Beach. At twelve fifty-one p.m.”

  “Wh
ich way did he turn? East or west?”

  He shrugged. “Camera doesn’t show that.”

  “Where the hell did he go? What was he doing for the next eight hours before he got home?”

  “How’s your geography? What’s around there?”

  I thought about it just as my tres leches arrived. A heavy sponge cake made with condensed milk, evaporated milk, and heavy cream, topped by whipped cream in the event you needed more saturated fat. I speared some whipped cream, then dug my fork into the soggy cake underneath.

  “The landmass there is just a thin corridor between bodies of water,” I said. “The ocean is maybe five miles to the east, the Everglades less than ten miles to the west. Plus, hundreds of lakes and canals in between.” Reality was setting in, and it was depressing. “We’ll never find her body, George. We’ll never have a case.”

  -29-

  The Titty Trap

  Detective Barrios had changed his mind. I wouldn’t make a good cop, after all. At least not a good homicide detective.

  “Don’t say, ‘We’ll never have a case.’ It takes patience, Jake. This isn’t an hour TV show where a clue falls into your lap after the third commercial.”

  He gave me a lecture about the power of pounding the pavement, even in these days when computers and cell towers and security cameras keep track of what we eat and drink, where we travel and sleep, who we screw, when we leave the house, and down what forbidden road Google has taken us.

  Ask not for whom the hard drive tolls; it tolls for thee.

  Maybe it was the sugar from the Cuban desserts, but Barrios became animated. He had a plan, which was more than I had. We would drive separately north on the turnpike to Exit 67. I would head east toward the ocean, and he would head west toward the Everglades.

  “What the hell are we looking for?” I asked.

  “If I knew that, we’d both go together right to the spot. Just drive and keep your eyes open. We’re retracing Calvert’s steps. You never know what you might find.”

  Barrios was right . . . the second time. I’d make a lousy cop.

  I fired up my ancient Cadillac, turned the AC on high, and drove north on I-95, snarled in endless traffic. It took thirty-five minutes to get out of the city and through the Golden Glades interchange, where I picked up the turnpike, just as Calvert had done the day Sofia disappeared.

  This was useless.

  A waste of time and gasoline.

  My lower back was seizing up as I passed Hard Rock Stadium, where the Dolphins play, or pretend to. That’s where I plied my trade, though not very well, and it’s where I got my brain dinged. Funny, I look back on those days with wistfulness and joy and few regrets. I still call it Joe Robbie Stadium, because that was the original name, and Robbie was the guy who brought the team into existence back in the days of the American Football League. After Robbie died, the new owner sold naming rights to Pro Player, basically an underwear company that had the good sense to go bankrupt. Then the name reverted to Dolphins Stadium, and a year later, the s was dropped, so it became Dolphin Stadium. I don’t know why. Maybe a shorter name saved money on the electricity bill. Then came Land Shark Stadium, named after the beer supposedly made by Jimmy Buffett, but in reality, just another Anheuser-Busch watery brew that’s sold at the concerts of our Florida troubadour. One year later, say hello to Sun Life Stadium, named after an insurance company. And now, with more money changing hands, it’s Hard Rock Stadium.

  The stadium’s shifting identity perfectly mirrors South Florida, home to shallow traditions and feigned loyalties, fast-buck artists and fly-by-night businesses. This alleged tropical paradise is built on the shifting sands of impermanence and the frail coastline of rising tides.

  I passed Calder Race Course, where I’ve lost money betting favorites and long shots alike. Traffic moved smoother here, lots of motorists taking the exits for 595, heading east into Fort Lauderdale. I lost sight of Barrios in his city-owned Chrysler. He was cruising at about eighty-five, immune from the tickets of state troopers.

  I started paying attention to the billboards just to take my mind off the plug-ugly nature of flat, soggy Florida, as seen from the turnpike. Billboards for churches with antiabortion messages, billboards for lawyers who will make millions for you if you’re crushed by a cement truck, billboards for payday lenders, eager to hand you cash.

  And billboards for strip clubs.

  As I neared Pompano Beach, the strip-club signs leered at me.

  CHEETAH.

  4PLAY.

  DIAMOND DOLLS.

  THE TITTY TRAP.

  Northern Broward County was crawling with lap-dance joints. I hadn’t been in one in ages. Back in my playing days, I may have been a benchwarmer on Sundays, but the rest of the week, I starred on the All-Pro, All-Party team, leading the league in broken curfews. After practice at the training camp in Davie in the southern part of the county, a few of us would head north for an evening meal, a few brews, and, of course, naked ladies.

  Okay, I was young and stupid with an extra dose of testosterone, so shoot me.

  As I neared Pompano Beach, I remembered something Dr. Freudenstein had said to me: “Calvert also has a penchant for getting lap dances at strip clubs. Sofia complained about it, and he admitted it.”

  I slowed and took Exit 67, which looped south for a few hundred yards. At the traffic light, I looked to the west. Coconut Creek Parkway. Barrios would be headed that way, so I would go in the other direction. I looked to the east and immediately saw the two-story sign.

  THE TITTY TRAP

  Right there. Dan Marino could fire a pass from where my car sat growling and knock out a window on the strip club.

  It can’t be this easy, I told myself. But maybe it is. Then I wondered how much cash I was carrying, and what they were charging for lap dances these days.

  -30-

  Amber, Autumn, Venus, and Delilah

  I ordered an eight-dollar beer, a local hoppy brew, and chatted up the bartender, a woman in her forties in a blue chambray halter top and cutoffs, a straw hat, and cowboy boots. Her false eyelashes were long enough to sweep the bar of peanut shells. She could have been the MILF featured player in a cattle-ranch porn video. I figured her as a former stripper whose knees were shot and whose tips diminished along with the tautness of her thighs.

  She drew the beer from a tap. “Haven’t seen you in here before, pardner.”

  I loosened my tie and draped my suit coat over the railing, as if I might stay a spell. “Friend recommended the place. A doctor.”

  She gave me a gap-toothed smile. “We get a lot of doctors. Couple plastic surgeons give discounts to the girls.”

  “And make house calls.”

  “More like VIP room calls.” She motioned toward the back, where a beaded curtain provided privacy for lap dances. “You hungry? We got a lunch special.”

  “Lemme guess. Strip steak?”

  “You have been here before.”

  “Nah, my pal told me. Maybe you know him. Clark Calvert, doctor down in Miami.”

  Her eyes hardened. “I’m not good with names.”

  She moved down the bar, as if to serve two guys in ball caps and T-shirts. But they didn’t need anything. They were tossing two-dollar bills to a stripper who cat-crawled along the bar, wiggling her butt, alternately purring and snarling, naked except for her shiny red platform heels. She picked up two of the bills, stood, and somehow managed to balance the greenbacks on the tips of her nipples while swaying to the music.

  I tried to get the bartender’s attention, but she ignored me. I’d screwed up.

  I’d moved too fast and asked the wrong person. She was a lifer in places like this and could smell bullshit before it hit the ground.

  Barrios wouldn’t have made that mistake. But then, Barrios owned the street, and I was just a tourist. What had he advised me?

  Patience.

  Four elevated stages were scattered around the big room. I swung around on my bar stool and checked them out
. Three stages were empty and dark. One was occupied by a nude stripper on a pole. She was a pale young woman with a blonde-and-pink mullet hairdo. Her legs were encircled by red-and-green tattoos from her ankles to her nether regions. As the sound system blasted Journey’s “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’,” she swung upside down, one ankle high over her head wrapped around the pole, her other leg parallel to the floor. Four men were scattered around the stage, pressed close to the rail, studying her as if they were gymnastics judges at the Olympics.

  I sipped my brew, and a young brunette in a red thong and matching push-up bra slid onto the adjacent bar stool as gracefully as a cowboy hopping onto a saddle. She had a coppery complexion, thanks to a couple layers of makeup that might have been applied with a spatula, like icing on a cake. I was willing to bet her name was Amber, Autumn, Venus, or Delilah.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Trouble.”

  “Small t or capital T ?”

  “Both.”

  “Ha, good one.” I smiled broadly and idiotically, as if I were the friendliest, dumbest traveling salesman ever to take a detour off the turnpike.

  The music stopped long enough for a gravelly-voiced DJ, hidden behind darkened glass, to inform us that Amber—I knew there had to be one!—had one more pole dance and that Summer was on deck. Standing off to the side, Summer took a bow. She had blonde pigtails and wore a short plaid skirt, white blouse, and black patent-leather shoes. Tortoiseshell eyeglasses completed the parochial-schoolgirl look.

  The DJ went quiet, and Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” pulsed out of the speakers.

  “How ’bout a lap dance?” Trouble asked. “Full friction.”

  “Tell me more, capital T for Trouble.”

  “Only twenty bucks. Early-bird special.”

  “Sweet deal.”

  “But that’s only one dance. We call it the stimulation. We recommend three dances for completion. Only fifty bucks.”

  “Volume discount.” I nodded appreciatively, a man who knows a bargain. I handed her a fifty. She shot a glance at the cowgirl bartender, slipped off the bar stool, and took my hand, leading me behind the beaded curtains, where the speakers roared even louder.