You Only Die Twice

by Edna Buchanan

  A huge gumbo limbo, pines, and buttonwood trees shaded the oceanfront building where Dallas Suarez lived. About twenty-five years old, it was modest in size, unlike the soaring structures built today with hundreds of units.

  I rang her doorbell at nearly nine, hoping she wasn’t already gone or still asleep.

  I heard scurrying, as a small commotion erupted inside. Did I interrupt something? I wondered. Did the femme fatale linked to murder, adultery, and big bucks still run true to form?

  Someone peered through a peephole, then opened the door. The same black hair, the same woman in the ten-year-old news clips, but far from the sultry siren I was prepared to dislike. Her face looked sunny and free of makeup, with just a trace of lipstick. Large fawnlike brown eyes, freckles sprinkled across her nose. The eyes, exquisitely soft, contrasted startlingly with her hard body. She was fit and athletic, her black tights and oversized white shirt nearly hiding the fact that she was about six months pregnant. The commotion I’d heard had been a little girl, about three, scampering to the door. Her halo of curly hair was lighter, but she had her mother’s eyes.

  “Alexa.” The mother collared the little one. “Stay in here with Mommy, you can’t go out now.” Her voice was throaty, her words warm, with the faintest trace of an accent.

  “Dallas Suarez?”

  “Svenson.” She smiled. “Dallas Svenson. I’ve been married for some time.”

  Her eyes widened slightly at my name. “Can I talk to you about what happened ten years ago?” I asked.

  She stepped back, took a deep breath, and glanced away for a moment, blinking, as though my appearance was painful. “I was afraid of this,” she murmured. Her Bambi eyes refocused on me. “I was afraid the press might look me up.”

  “I have no plans to rehash old news,” I assured her. “I’m just trying to piece things together, to find out where Kaithlin was all this time.”

  Polite but wary, she let me in. We sat in a sunny breakfast room, her little girl busy nearby with a coloring book and crayons.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” I said.

  She smiled and patted her stomach. “I’m not surprised. I guess it’s obvious I’m not doing much skydiving, flying, or skiing these days. Life changes when you have kids, you know.”

  “But you look happy, as though you have no regrets.”

  “Happy? Yes,” she said. “Regrets, sure. Have you seen him?” She lowered her eyes. “Have you seen R. J.?”

  I nodded.

  “How is he?”

  “Older,” I said. “Bitter.”

  “Who could blame him?” she said. “Even I didn’t believe him. Oh, I did at first. But the police kept questioning me. They were so sure. Everybody believed he did it. So, eventually, I believed it too. I should have known better.”

  “Why did he prefer you to his wife?”

  “That was the hell of it,” she said, smile rueful. “He didn’t. He loved her. I knew he’d never get her out of his system, no matter what he said.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Stupid,” she said, without hesitation. “She had to be the world’s most stupid woman. He craved attention, needed love and affection, tender loving care. He didn’t get it from her.”

  “His reputation and his press clippings seem to indicate that he never lacked attention.”

  She clasped her hands, taking a deep breath. An impressive diamond-studded wedding band and an oval amethyst winked on her long slender fingers. “I thought the same thing when we met. That facade of his masked a great many insecurities. He looked like a Greek god, larger than life, with a roguish, wild-Indian sort of charm. He never lied about being married. He had to qualify when he bought the plane. I was his flight instructor. We both loved to fly. What started as a harmless flirtation became serious for me once I got to know the man. When I saw his sensitive, vulnerable side, I fell.”

  She sighed, soft eyes caressing her little girl.

  “He hated the family business,” she said. “It was all his parents thought about when he was growing up. They gave him everything except what all kids crave; that’s why he ran wild. Ironically, he finally married a woman he loved and she rejected him too, by becoming involved with the same rival, the family stores.”

  “But it all would have been his eventually.”

  “He wanted no part of it.” She stopped to praise a picture colored by little Alexa. “They insisted he study business administration,” she continued, lifting the child onto her lap. “He hated that. Did you know he wanted to study architecture?”

  “No,” I said. “I never heard that.”

  “You should see his sketches. He was so talented, absolutely wonderful. He talked about it all the time. He dreamed of designing buildings, timeless structures to shelter people and their children. He had no interest in operating retail stores, selling cosmetics, clothes, and jewelry.

  “It was a crazy time,” she reflected, smoothing her little girl’s hair. “It was the usual thing. The same sad story. You always hear it. I loved him, he loved her and she loved…”—her voice trailed off—“who knows? Her picture was always in the newspaper. She was a community activist, she helped women, was involved in civic projects that were good public relations for the company, but what did she ever do for him? She couldn’t even get pregnant, and he wanted a family more than anything.”

  “It meant money,” I said cynically. “His parents promised—”

  “He didn’t care about the money,” she said derisively. The child abruptly wriggled off her lap and eluded her grasp.

  “Wanna go out, wanna go,” the little girl insisted, romping toward the door.

  “She’s so willful.” Dallas rolled her eyes in mock desperation. “What will I do with her?”

  “Wait till she’s sixteen,” I said, thinking of Kaithlin.

  Recaptured after a minor skirmish and a few wails, the child settled down with a cookie and crayons to work on another picture.

  “Where were we?” Dallas asked. “Oh, right. R. J. didn’t care about the money. He believed a baby would save the marriage, make it work. That Kaithlin would stay home to be a wife and mother. She’d promised to work only until they had a family. But it didn’t happen. R. J. had a wife, they slept in the same bed, but he was lonely. When they talked about it, she suggested he become more involved in Jordan’s, to put on a suit and go to the office every day. He tried, but he hated it.”

  “What about the money?” I said. “The prosecutors and the jury believed he stole it, in part to lavish on you.”

  She looked pensive. “I don’t want to be quoted.” She paused again, white teeth gnawing at her full lower lip. “He might have,” she finally said. “He was so jealous of the business. If he took the money it was because he felt they owed him. I admit, we spent a lot. He bought me presents. We took overnight trips when we could, to the islands, did some scuba-diving and gambling. We flew to Vegas a few times after they separated. Even went to the Kentucky Derby that year.”

  “Was he a big loser?”

  “Actually, no. R. J.’s a good gambler, won big-time. Especially at blackjack. We had fun; he was generous. I took expensive gifts, but I was beginning to realize he’d never divorce her, even though he kept saying it was inevitable. I kept hoping, but I could see he thought about her, talked about her, all the time.

  “My parents were humiliated when it happened. They didn’t know I’d been seeing a married man. Once she was missing and he became a suspect, the newspaper stories were horrible. I was questioned, had to testify. My parents were furious. I was so ashamed. Now I’m ashamed that I testified against him. But, you see, everybody said he did it. They kept saying it until I believed it and was devastated, convinced I had unknowingly contributed to her death. Then he said all those hurtful things when he testified, that I meant nothing to him. I was a basket case. I still loved him. I was a mess.” She gave an ironic, self-deprecating laugh. “Took me years to get past it, to get myself grounded ag
ain.

  “I wish him well,” she said earnestly. “I wish all the happiness in the world for him. He deserves it. He married the wrong woman, he made mistakes, but he’s not a bad man.”

  “Have you contacted him?” I asked, as we walked to the door.

  “Of course not,” she said emphatically. “He wouldn’t want to hear from me after all that happened. And I’m a happily married woman now, with children.”

  “What does your husband do?” I asked.

  She smiled. “He’s an architect.”

  13

  Martin Kagan appeared more successful than I expected. His shiny new midnight-blue Cadillac—bearing the vanity tag ACQUIT—was parked in the narrow alley beside his building. His thick office carpeting looked fresh and new, and the man actually had a secretary.

  Well past middle age, tall and thin, she wore a simple, inexpensive business suit and a harried expression.

  “Is he in?” I asked.

  Startled, she stared up, mouth half open. Fumbling with her glasses, she peered curiously at me through the thick lenses. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Is that affidavit ready yet?” a man bellowed from an inner office. “What the hell is this? I don’t have all day!”

  She reacted as though dodging a bullet. “Right away, sir.”

  She shuffled through some papers and hurried into his office, document in hand.

  The phone was ringing when she emerged. She spoke briefly to a wrong number whose Spanish she could not comprehend, then turned to me apologetically. “I’m sorry. Who shall I say is here?”

  A door burst open and Martin Kagan hurtled out as though shot from a cannon.

  “What the hell is this shit?” he demanded. Small and sallow-skinned, he had dark hair plastered so firmly in place that I doubted a hurricane-force wind could disturb it. He appeared to be wearing football shoulder pads under his expensive suit jacket.

  “Can’t you get anything right?” he bawled. “Doesn’t that expensive machine have a goddamn spell check? Look at this! Look at this!”

  He rudely pointed out a minor misspelling.

  “Sorry, sir, but you were in such a hurry.” Her hands shook as she took the document back to correct.

  His furtive eyes flicked my way with what appeared to be a glimmer of recognition. “Can I help you with something?” he asked, thick fingers plucking fastidiously at the cuffs of his fancy monogrammed shirt.

  “Yes,” I said. “A few minutes of your time.”

  He checked his gold watch. “Sure, just let me make a call first.”

  He snatched the corrected page from his secretary’s uncertain hand, stormed back into his lair, and slammed the door.

  “Is he always that obnoxious?” I asked softly. A light flickered in the phone set on her desk as he made his call.

  She nodded, eyes glistening.

  “Why do you put up with it?”

  “I need the job,” she whispered hopelessly.

  “Right.” A younger, bilingual secretary would walk in a heartbeat, probably land a better job the same day. But this woman, with no wedding ring, in her sensible support hose and homely, low-heeled, no-nonsense shoes, had no such luxury. Jobs are scarce in Miami for self-supporting Anglo women of a certain age, no matter how impressive their résumés.

  Her name was Frances Haehle. “I have to hand it to you,” I commiserated while waiting. “The stress factor must be high. You’re the only one here? You do everything?”

  “I’m it.” She sniffed. “I’m used to it, but these last few weeks he’s been—”

  Kagan’s office door cracked open. “Come in, Ms. Montero.”

  “I didn’t think you remembered me,” I said.

  “Oh, I’ve seen you around the justice building, seen your byline. What can I do for you?”

  My impressions of Kagan, as he darted from courtroom to courtroom, had been that of a man who embarrassed other lawyers. Never ready to proceed, never ready for trial, always unprepared, his defense weapon fired blanks. When he represented a client, everybody knew a guilty plea would follow. But today he appeared supremely confident as he motioned me to a leather chair.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard about the Jordan case.”

  “Sure, who hasn’t? Hell of a thing.”

  “Was Kaithlin Jordan your client?”

  “No, no,” he said vigorously, then cocked his head, as though puzzled. His sharp chin and bright dark eyes gave him a cunning ferretlike look. “You know, some detectives stopped by here the other day and asked the same question. I’ll tell you exactly what I told them. Never met the woman. Never heard from her. My secretary will tell you the same thing.” He picked up a file, dismissing me.

  I remained seated. “Perhaps you met before her supposed murder ten years ago.”

  Leaning back in his shiny leather chair, he looked down his nose as though I was something nasty he had stepped in.

  “Perhaps in school,” I suggested. “You both grew up here. Maybe you knew her as Kaithlin Warren. Her mother’s first name was Reva.”

  “Sorry.” He shook his head. “I saw the pictures in the paper. Her picture. I’da remembered that.”

  “Your father would have loved this case,” I continued. “It’s right up his alley. An innocent man on death row.”

  Kagan’s ferret eyes darted around the room.

  “Too bad he wasn’t here for it,” I said.

  He consulted his gold Rolex. “I hafta be in court in ten minutes,” he said abruptly. “Sorry I can’t help you.” On his feet, suddenly a man in a hurry, he snatched his leather briefcase as he ushered me out.

  “If you remember anything,” I said, “please call me.” I tried to hand him my business card.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He waved it off impatiently. “Leave it with my secretary on your way out.”

  Frances was on the phone as I left, but I saw the other button light up. I parked down the block in the T-Bird, sat, and watched for forty-five minutes. The man in a hurry never left his office. He didn’t go to court.

  So I did. I went to the fifth-floor clerk’s office. Each lawyer has an identification number. Using that number you can pull up every case assigned to any particular attorney in Miami-Dade. Kagan was attorney of record for defendants charged with robbery, possession of stolen property, lewd behavior, and resisting arrest. That charming clientele failed to reflect any sudden surge in business, nothing to account for his recent prosperity, new car, new suit, new carpet. Even his fine leather briefcase looked brand-new.

  I called Onnie. “Anything?”

  “Naw.” She sounded dispirited. “Thought I nailed her first thing this morning. Successful real estate woman, right age, physical description, turned up missing at the right time, out of Baja California. Thought for sure it was her.”

  “Maybe it is,” I said quickly.

  “Nope. They found this one, in a shallow grave in the desert.”

  “Jeez,” I said, disappointed. “What a shame.”

  “The shallow grave, or her not being Kaithlin Jordan?”

  “Both.”

  “Yeah,” she said bleakly. “I’m still on it.”

  I called Frances, Kagan’s secretary. She said he was out. “Good,” I said. “Let’s have lunch. We can go somewhere close by.”

  “I can’t leave the phones, I’m the only one here.”

  “Put them on service,” I coaxed. “You’ll be back in an hour.”

  “I really can’t,” she said regretfully.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll bring lunch to you. We can eat at your desk.”

  “I don’t think that would be wise,” she said carefully.

  “He wouldn’t be happy to come back and find me there?”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “He was upset by my visit this morning?”

  “Off the wall,” she said.

  “Well, you have to eat lunch sometime.”

  “I brought something. Some yogurt.”

>   I sighed. “I just thought maybe we could talk, confidentially, about a story I’m working on.”

  “I have to go over to the justice building later, to file some motions for him,” she offered hesitantly. “I could meet you for a quick cup of coffee.”

  Ten floors of misery, the Dade County Jail stands directly across the street from the justice building. A covered walkway links them four stories above traffic, so prisoners are protected from the temptations of fresh air, open sky, and outside influences as they are marched to court.

  Frances completed her work at the clerk’s office, called me, and walked to the far side of the jail, where I swooped by in my T-Bird to scoop her off the street corner. She scanned the block to see if anyone was watching before ducking into my car, as though we were engaged in some clandestine operation.

  The first-floor coffee shop at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital several blocks away wasn’t crowded. Frances leaned back, eyes roving the room with interest, as though it had been some time since she had sat in public with someone over a snack.

  “The story you came to see my boss about,” she said, after we ordered tea and pastries. “It’s the Jordan case, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve been reading about it,” she said, eyes downcast.

  “It’s a fascinating story,” I said.

  “I was sure that’s why you came. Did you know the police came to ask him about it too?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That would be Detective Rychek.”

  “Right. How did they make the connection to him?” she asked, her expression intent.

  “Kaithlin Jordan’s hotel bill reflected phone calls to your office.”

  “Ah.” She nodded slowly. “So that was it.”

  “But he denies they ever spoke. Said you’d confirm that.”

  “That’s what he told me to tell the detective.”

  “Is it true?”