Dad patted my hand with an approving smile I would have given anything to see from him as a kid, even if I couldn’t have admitted it. “Tennyson,” he said. “What did you do to that man?”
“Raphael?”
He nodded.
“Not much,” I said. “Just gave him the finger.”
Elliot stared at the photos, his face blank. “Too much of his face is covered,” he said. “Nice prosthetic nose, though.”
“You can tell the nose is fake?”
“Look at the size of that thing. I’m betting the mustache is fake, too. That’s how he’s masking the nose. A little crude, but not obvious. I give up. Am I supposed to know this guy?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to lead Elliot.
“Someone you’ve worked with,” I said.
He flipped through the photos, staring without recognition. Then he leaned over to see more clearly, tracing the man’s earlobe. “Wait a minute,” he said, and grinned.
“You know him?”
“Where’d you take this? Are you spying on him? This is creepy, Tin Man.”
“Who is it?”
Elliot gave me a skeptical look. “You’re shitting me, right? It’s Esocbar.”
“You can tell under all that makeup?”
“Look at the ear. Most people don’t think to cover that. Don’t realize how distinctive it is. There are some things you can’t hide without a plastic surgeon. What, are you following him around?”
Elliot was right; the longer I looked at the photo of Escobar in the VIP lounge, the more obvious his features. If I squinted and ignored his nose, I was staring at my director. But would anyone else see it besides a makeup artist and me?
I glanced at Elliot. “Would Escobar need help making that nose?”
“Like me, you mean?” Elliot said. “I would’ve done a better job, but anyone who knows a thing or two could put it together.”
“What about Escobar? Could he do it himself?”
Elliot looked at me as if I were blind. “Ten, come on. Escobar’s knee-deep in makeup and effects. Fidel wasn’t an accident. Makeup nearly got him that Oscar. That’s all anyone remembers. I’m lucky he doesn’t have the time, or what would he need me for?”
Elliot’s intel on Escobar was useful, but the worship in his voice worried me. When Escobar wasn’t partying, he was being feted at dinners and book signings. Nuestro Tío Fidel had been a major event in Miami. And I was about to visit South Beach Police to name Escobar as a potential murder suspect? I didn’t have a photograph of Escobar with Maria—I had a photo of a phantom. The most Elliot could say was that it might be him.
So far, Maria’s death was still classified as a drowning, and no homicide department wanted to open a potentially difficult case, especially with political overtones. The police would need convincing just to open a murder investigation, never mind sniffing around Escobar. Dad was right when he said I was always looking for reasons not to trust the police, but I had good reasons.
“Nice life, huh?” Elliot said, gazing at the photos from the club. “Are you stalking him?”
I could confide in Elliot and try to enlist his help, or I could keep quiet. For the sake of my case, and maybe Elliot’s sake, too, I chose the latter. “Just a bet with a friend,” I said.
In between reciting lines, I had a few hours to try to build a case against Escobar that would at least make him sound plausible.
The police would have to catch up to me.
I cut my makeup session short to find a corner to work my cell phone while Escobar huddled with his lighting guys. The mansion’s high ceilings were a lighting nightmare. Escobar told us not to wander far, always certain we would be rolling at any moment, but after fifteen minutes, I realized I might have an hour on my phone. Signs condemning cell phones were posted everywhere on the set, but I kept mine on vibrate and my conversations quiet.
I’d tried calling Victoria, the high-end escort Raphael had told me about, but she’d never answered her phone the night before. I wanted to find out about the time she’d spent with Mr. Big Nose, a.k.a. Juan. She might not talk to the police at all. I tried her number again.
“Who’s this?” a woman’s voice said.
“Raffi gave me your number,” I said.
I apologized for bothering her and stuck with my story that I was looking for my daughter. I had no idea if Raphael had mentioned me to Victoria or what he had told her to say.
In the long silence, I wondered if she’d hung up on me. Finally, she sighed as if I were an annoying pollster. “Raffi told me I shouldn’t talk to you. But you’re not a cop, so go on.”
Victoria told me she had “dated” Juan twice, and both times she had been to “his boat.” She said he liked to sit and watch her touch herself, a sanitized story. A good lawyer could say she hadn’t described an illegal act. In her place, I wouldn’t have trusted me, either.
I glanced around to make sure I was out of anyone’s hearing range, especially Escobar. I was in the archway leading to the patio, out of Escobar’s earshot.
“Where’s this boat? What does it look like?”
“It’s not a yacht or anything, but it has a cabin.”
“Cabin cruiser? How big?”
“Not too big. Maybe thirty feet. Nice, but it got cramped.”
“Does his boat have a name?”
“Yeah.” A pause while she thought about it. “Rosa.”
“That’s it?” Boat owners didn’t usually name their boats the way they would name a pet. The names were usually more elaborate. “That’s not part of a longer name?”
“R-O-S-A, painted next to a picture of a red rose. I can spell.”
The boat might be a rental, but I finally had a clue. “Where’s it docked?”
“Once I boarded at Bayside, another time at Miami Beach Marina.”
Details were precious, so I wrote them all. Escobar might rent slips all over town, a different dock each night. Neither marina she had mentioned was likely to let him live aboard, but I would check.
“He ever mention where he lives?” I asked her.
“No, but he’s working, so maybe a hotel.” She might know more, but she wouldn’t say.
“What kind of work does he do?” A quick flick of my eyes again, and I saw Escobar staring up at a footlight’s stream, preoccupied. “Is he in the film business?”
“I don’t know. He’s not the chatty type,” Victoria said. I wondered if she was protecting him or if she really didn’t know.
“Could he be wearing a disguise?” I said.
“Definitely a wig. I can tell. He never takes it off.”
“Does he have an accent?”
“Maybe a little. Everyone in Miami has an accent. He might be Spanish.” Spanish, to Victoria, probably meant Cuban or Nicaraguan or Puerto Rican or Panamanian. I didn’t waste time pressing, since she wasn’t likely to know his ethnicity. Escobar might still be my man.
I took a chance. “Have you ever heard of Gustavo Escobar?” My voice was so low I had to repeat his name twice. He was thirty feet from me, but I had nowhere else to go except the archway. Bored crewmen were smoking on the patio behind me.
Victoria said she hadn’t heard of Escobar. Over the phone, I guided her to photos of him on Google Images on her iPad, but she didn’t recognize his name or face. Obviously, she would have been more likely to see through the disguise if she’d met him beforehand. But then again, my Escobar theory might be wishful thinking.
“Did the guy ever hurt you in any way? Anything rough?”
“He’s on an ego trip, so he’s got a mean mouth. But he barely touches me.”
“Has he ever drugged your drink?”
A pause. “How does this help you find your daughter, exactly?”
“Miss, I’m sorry, but she might have been with the same man. I’m trying to eliminate him as a suspect.” I cringed at my wording; I sounded like a cop, not a father.
“I’ve never had blackouts with him, if that’s what you mean. He’s
a business associate.”
“No dizziness, then?” I said, remembering Maria from the surveillance tape.
Victoria sighed hotly. “You’re way off base with this one. I have to get ready for class. Tell Raphael to go to hell for giving you my name and number. Good luck making your case.” She hung up.
Damn. I’d pushed her Cop button, and I was back where I’d started. I didn’t have evidence to make Escobar a real suspect to anyone but me, and I couldn’t eliminate him, either. But at least I could start looking for his boat.
Gustavo suddenly snapped a finger at me, as if he’d heard my thoughts.
“Is that your daughter, Chela? Tell her hello for me,” Escobar said.
He gave me a long gaze, and I doubt he missed how much he’d startled me. “I’m ready for you, mijo. Put the phone away.” Escobar winked at me and flashed me a dolphin’s smile before he walked off.
I felt sick when I remembered that I’d introduced Chela to Escobar on the set the same day she later went out with Maria. His careful eyes probably had spotted Chela at Club Phoenixx; maybe he’d chosen Chela because he recognized her.
If he was a killer, I had let a sociopath into my life. Close to my family.
Maybe he’d wanted to drown Chela, not Maria. Maybe he’d only settled on Maria when Chela backed away. How many others had he killed? For how long? Like any good director, Escobar might have had our story mapped out long before I arrived in Miami.
Why had Escobar chosen me to be in his movie? What did he want?
During that day’s shoot, I could barely remember my lines.
THE SOUTH BEACH Police station is dressed up in lights, blending into the art deco district like an attraction. It’s one of the loveliest stations in the country, but nothing makes up for having to visit the police on a sunny day.
One of Dad’s connections had led me to an appointment with Detective Lydia Hernandez, who hardly looked a day over twenty-five. I wondered how she’d had time to make detective, much less in homicide. In all likelihood, her boss had asked her to talk to me; most of the cops in LAPD who knew Dad held high positions.
She was tall, with wavy dark hair wrapped in a long ponytail. Miami’s women are also among the finest in the country, and Lydia Hernandez could have let good looks carry her anywhere. I knew in a glance at her peach-colored tailored pants suit that she was a climber who wouldn’t appreciate flirting. She dressed more like FBI than local police. The handcuffs on her belt reminded me to be cautious.
“So you’re reporting a homicide?” Hernandez said once we were in an interview room. She flipped a tiny metal paper clip between her fingers.
“Your Jane Doe drowning victim is a prostitute who was working South Beach. Her name is Maria Dominguez. She’s part of a suspicious pattern. I’m a private detective, and I’ve been asked to share my investigation.” I’d given her the basics on the phone, but I summarized again.
“Tennyson Hardwick,” she said. “I know who you are.” To her credit, her tone was neutral. For whatever reason, she’d decided to hear me out—or pretend to.
I handed her my evidence packet, which included Maria’s driver’s license, Raphael’s cell phone (I’d copied all of the incoming and collected numbers for my own use), and duplicates of my security photos.
Detective Hernandez registered surprise at the driver’s license. She opened a file on her desk and compared it with the artist’s sketch. “We got intel it might be her,” she said. “Prints match, so we’ll make her ID public today. You got this license how?”
She was taking notes, suddenly very interested in my opinions. I told her about Julio’s fake ID enterprise below Fifth Street and the prostitution ring at Club Phoenixx.
“Excuse me,” Detective Hernandez said primly. She stood up with my evidence and slipped the bag into her folder. “I’ll be right back.”
I wondered if she was having a rookie moment, unsure of how to proceed. Or maybe she was trying to sweat me to shake up my story. It could have been a little of both.
Fifteen minutes later, she came back with a silver-haired male detective whose name tag identified him as R. MCCLARY. His face was leathery from sun; I guessed he was in his early fifties. A third detective stood in the doorway, a brother in his thirties with bulky arms and a sour face. I’d wanted the police to take me seriously.
Be careful what you wish for.
“Go on,” Detective Hernandez said. “You were saying?”
Hernandez and the brother took notes while I described Chela’s encounter with Julio. I only called Chela “a witness” and didn’t tell them she was my daughter; I would save that information for when it was absolutely necessary. I described Raphael’s relationship with the girls and the nightclub’s nonintervention policy.
“Sounds like SIU,” Detective McClary told her, not sounding impressed. SIU was short for Strategic Investigations Unit, which included prostitution and drugs.
“What makes you think this was a homicide?” Hernandez asked me.
“Third suspicious drowning of a prostitute in three weeks?” I said. I looked at their faces, and they seemed surprised but engaged. “One in Miami, two on the beach. The girls are doing a ‘buddy’ system. Plus, our girl doesn’t swim. Hated the water. She’s last seen looking woozy leaving the club on this guy’s arm. She was so out of it she left her purse and cell behind.”
They passed the photocopy around.
“Another serial killer,” the black detective said sarcastically, shaking his head.
“Who’s this again?” McClary asked Hernandez, as if I weren’t there.
“He’s a PI,” Hernandez said. “Hardwick. The Sofia Maitlin guy.”
The black detective laughed. “Oh, shit! You’re right. He is that guy.”
“T. D. Jackson didn’t look like a homicide, either—at first,” I said, reminding them that I was still in the room. Before my reputation took its dive with Sofia Maitlin, I’d gained recognition for solving the murder of T.D. Jackson.
“A broken clock is right twice a day,” Detective McClary said.
Same song, different city. I nearly graduated from the police academy, but cops and I have never gotten along.
I soldiered on with my story, summarizing my conversation with Victoria. I invited them to call her, as well as the woman Chela called Mouse Girl. I described the boat named Rosa and where it had been docked.
“The man in that photo is wearing a disguise, but I have a possible name,” I said. “Gustavo Escobar.”
Hernandez dropped her hand away from her pad in mid-sentence. “Gus?” she said. I didn’t like the sound of Gus. She almost said more but stopped herself.
“Who?” McClary said.
“Gus Escobar,” the black cop said. “You know, the Cuban film director.”
“Why would I know that?” McClary said.
Hernandez ignored her colleague, staring heavily at me. “Do you have evidence against Gustavo Escobar?” Her voice had been placid, but now a razor was primed to slash at me.
“He’s good with makeup,” I said. “I believe he has a connection to Raphael. He frequents that nightclub. If you notice his earlobe—”
The brother gave Hernandez a look: Are you kidding with this?
Hernandez looked embarrassed. “Fine,” she said, cutting me off. “Thank you for bringing this to us, Mr. Hardwick. Leave your cell number, please.”
“Yeah, thanks for stopping by from Hollywood to visit us little people,” McClary said.
I wanted to say a few things to McClary, but Hernandez steered me toward the elevator, giving me her business card. “There might be something here,” she said. “But leave the police work to us. If you try to publicly link Gustavo Escobar to this drowning, you’ll be opening yourself to legal retaliation like you’ve never seen.”
“Excuse me?” I said. She was so polite I almost missed her threat.
“We don’t like circus acts,” she said. “You’ve got a dead hooker who might be a homicide, fine.
I’ll look into it—I promise. But I also promise that if you turn this into a circus with your Hollywood bullshit, you’ll be sorry you came to us.”
I was already sorry. So much for Hernandez being the Good Cop.
We had reached the elevator. “You called him Gus. You know him?”
“Sure, I know him like most people in Miami do—from the newspaper,” she said. “I read the Miami Herald. He made Nuestro Tío Fidel, which my parents saw three times. He just gave a million dollars to Miami’s performing arts school. The mayor of Miami hosted a private party for him last week. My lieutenant tells us, ‘Remember, Gus is shooting on the beach today.’ That’s how I know him. If we find evidence he’s a serial, I’ll be the first to lock him up. But without evidence, you came to the wrong town to take his name in vain.”
The elevator dinged, signaling the end of our conversation.
“You can’t find evidence you’re not looking for, Detective,” I said.
“You’ve got nothing on Escobar,” she said, making an O with her fingers. “Nada. If you’ve got any kind of real chops, you know I’m right. I can spend my time finding out what happened to Maria, or I can fuck you over all day and night. Your pick.”
Call me old-fashioned, but profanity sounds wrong from the mouth of a pretty woman.
“I get it. No waves, right?”
“No press conferences, no circus—no jail. Comprende? Good-bye, Mr. Hardwick.” Her ponytail lashed from side to side as she walked away.
I had never been shut out with such efficient grace.
And people wonder why I never want to go to the police.
When I didn’t have any luck sniffing around Miami Beach Marina for Escobar’s boat, escorted away by security, I decided to go back to the set. That was the one place I knew I wouldn’t run into any cops.
My scene was over, but Escobar was scheduled to work until nightfall, and I wanted to try to learn by observing him. Maybe I could goad him into revealing something the police could use. I hoped he was arrogant enough to make a mistake.
Once I’d found my corner near the set, I checked out the newspaper archives on my phone, squinting at the small type as I scrolled. Gustavo Escobar was one of Miami’s favorite sons. The love affair had begun two years before, when he shot some scenes from Fidel in Miami and drummed up support from local fundraisers. He’d visited frequently, appearing on local television and at the party scene throughout the film’s release and Oscar campaign. And he had made contributions in the tens of thousands of dollars to various Cubano charities. One of the newspaper stories mentioned that he and his sister had fled the homeland on a raft in the early 1960s. His father, the story said, had been a political prisoner in one of Castro’s jails, executed while his family watched.
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