You Only Die Twice

by Edna Buchanan

  “The TV people love this case,” he said dreamily. “It has it all; greed, sex, and violence among the beautiful people.” He was more than a little annoyed that, after all he had done for the man, R. J. was behaving churlishly, refusing to cooperate with the big network shows now eager for interviews.

  I told him I’d come to see the tape in the morning, then checked my messages as I navigated through traffic on the Dolphin Expressway. The Department of Corrections spokeswoman had left an answer to my query. Bingo, I thought, and beeped Rothman. I was almost back at the News when he called.

  “Where you been?” he said. “I tried to get ahold of you.”

  “Working on the story,” I said. “I was hoping to talk to you before it goes to press.”

  “Where are you at?”

  “The News,” I said. “Just pulling in.”

  “Okay, I’m close by, checking something for a client. How’s about we meet over by the Casablanca on the MacArthur Causeway? Ten minutes.”

  “The fish market? They open this late?”

  “No.” He sounded disgusted. “That’s the idea. It’s private.”

  The world’s freshest fish is sold at the Casablanca outdoor fish market on Watson Island, along the causeway that links Miami and Miami Beach. The small island is also home port for commercial fishing boats, a shark fishing fleet, a sightseeing helicopter service, and Chalk’s seaplanes, with regular routes to the Bahamas and Key West.

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll see you there. What are you driving?”

  “A rental. Dark-colored Blazer.”

  “I’ll be in—”

  “A white T-Bird. I know,” he said, and hung up.

  Magenta lighting illuminates the swooping new design of the recently elevated west bridge. A $1.4 million necklace of high-intensity bulbs stretches for 2,500 feet. Its eerie purple glow reflects off the water and the sheer concrete bridge supports, disturbing the dreams and nightmares of the homeless and hopelessly deranged who dwell there. Their nights now a purple haze, they have become edgier, more prone to psychotic episodes and violent outbursts.

  I hit the brakes near the fish market as a stick-thin figure in tattered clothes stumbled across my path. How many like him, I wondered, could be fed and sheltered with the $20,000 a year spent on electricity for the purple lights?

  The wind had picked up out of the east, the temperature was in the 60s, and the blue lights of the port span, the purple of the bridge, the cruise ships, Bayside, and the city skyline were as breathtaking as a bejeweled kingdom in some ancient fable. The huge moon, in all its splendor, paled by comparison.

  I parked at the windswept fish market, a narrow one-story building, dark and boarded up for the night. No one else seemed to be there as I marveled at the view, inhaling the scents of water, fish, and the city night. Then the Blazer rolled up out of the dark.

  I knew that Rothman, like most private eyes, was an ex-cop. But his strong telephone presence had led me to expect a bigger, more imposing man. He wore a short-sleeved guayabera. Beefy and middle-aged, his hairline was receding, and his eyes were hostile and alert.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I said.

  He looked startled, then eyed the view suspiciously, his glance hard and sweeping.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It was right over here, ’bout this time last year, they found that hooker floating facedown. Name was Norma. They think she bought it over there at Bayside and rode the tide over here.”

  “That’s right.” I recalled the case. Was that a veiled threat, I wondered, or was this the man’s version of small talk? “Did they ever solve that one?” I asked.

  “Not that I heard. You know how some cases tend to fall through the cracks.”

  He must wish the Jordan case would do that, I thought.

  “So you’re still sniffing around, huh?”

  “Right,” I said, remembering how R. J. had reacted to the man’s name. “The story’s finally coming together. I just found out about the business you did with R. J.”

  Rothman shook his head slowly, eyes incredulous in the shifting light off the water. “You must be one hell of a poker player. You should come work for me if you ever need a job.”

  “I never got into card games,” I said mildly. “Saw R. J. this afternoon, over at Williams Island.”

  “He mention my name?” he said skeptically.

  “It came up in conversation.”

  He shook his head, smiling.

  “And, of course,” I added, “there is also the fact that you were placed on R. J.’s visitor’s list and made a trip up to see him, two days before Kaithlin Jordan was murdered.”

  Rothman’s smile faded. “Not unusual for private investigators to visit inmates. It’s not like they can visit us.”

  “But you were never part of his defense team. You had to fake it for permission to see him.”

  “Look,” he said. “I just do my job. Sometimes you stumble onto a piece of information that’s valuable to various parties in a situation. That’s what keeps this business interesting.”

  “So.” My voice sounded thin in the rising wind. “Kagan hired you to find out who she was. How did you do that, by the way?”

  “You expect me to share trade secrets?” He sniffed the air and shifted his weight, eyes on the move. “Let’s just say nothing’s impossible when you got a direct link.”

  “Was it the money deliveries or her phone calls?” I asked.

  “I’ve said all I’m gonna say about that.”

  “I was just curious,” I said. “You’re good. Once you made Shannon Broussard, the leap to Kaithlin Jordan wasn’t all that tough. You were out at the cemetery too, right?”

  He smirked but didn’t answer.

  “When you did put it all together, you not only collected from Kagan, you sold the information to R. J. You told him where she was, right?”

  “In good conscience, I couldn’t let the guy die.”

  “You could have told the police or his defense team.”

  “Yeah, but why not accomplish the same thing and make a buck? Kagan’s one stingy bastard, and I’m not in business for my health. You ever freelance? You ever write stories for somebody besides the News?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I’m betting you don’t do it for nothing, am I right? Same premise. We all gotta make a living in this world. Never give away what you can sell. And the end result was justice. The guy was exonerated.”

  “But not until later, after her body was found and identified. Why the delay?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know, ask him. Day after I went up there, Jordan’s mother paid my bill and I provided the info on where her late daughter-in-law was staying.”

  “So Eunice also knew Kaithlin was alive?”

  He nodded, then sighed. “I did nothing illegal.”

  “When I freelance nobody dies.”

  “You’re saying Jordan might be responsible?”

  “Right.”

  “The man was behind bars.”

  “What better place to hire a killer?” I said.

  “I hafta admit the thought might have occurred to me. But if he’s guilty, he’s got the best damn alibi I ever heard—at the time of the crime, he’s on death row for her murder. But if it’s him, the M.O. makes no sense. Her body coulda washed out to sea easy. She coulda wound up shark food or been lost in the Gulf Stream. He hadda make sure she was found and identified.”

  “But why didn’t R. J. blow the whistle right away once he knew she was alive? Her body wasn’t identified for another two weeks.”

  “Maybe the guy gets off on near-death experiences.” Rothman gazed pensively out across the water.

  I wondered what he was really thinking. “Maybe,” I said, “there was a misunderstanding. Maybe he or Eunice hired a hit man who didn’t get the concept.”

  “Or maybe she just didn’t want junior back on her hands. From what I hear, he was always a pain in the ass.”

  “So Eunice hired
somebody to send Kaithlin out to sea? Hard to believe that of a mother,” I said, “even that one.”

  “You’d be surprised what some mothers will do to their kids,” he said.

  “That was you, wasn’t it?” I said. “At the cemetery?”

  He cocked his head to stare at me for a long moment.

  “What were you doing out there?” he countered.

  “Trying to piece things together, figure out who was who and what was going on.”

  “See, I told you,” he said. “We think alike. You oughta come work for me.”

  “You met Kaithlin, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Why did she want to save R. J.? What brought her back?”

  He gave me a toothy smile, as though happily surprised that there was something I didn’t know. “Maybe he had something she needed, or thought she did,” he said wryly.

  “Like what?”

  He shook his head. “Why don’t I see you to your car? You don’t want to hang around here alone in the dark.”

  “What was Kaithlin like when you met?” I asked, as we walked to the T-Bird. “Was she scared?”

  He paused as I unlocked my car. “I’m the one shoulda been scared,” he said. “She was one cold, scary bitch.”

  I sat in the car, scribbling in my notebook. I had more questions than before. What exactly did he mean by that last remark? Troubled, trembling suddenly in the chill, I stepped out to ask, but his Blazer was gone. He had pulled away, lights out, and vanished in the darkness.

  The newsroom had emptied after deadline for the final. The office was quiet. I had a message from Myrna Lewis, but it didn’t say urgent and it was too late to call her now. I’d try her in the morning. I typed up my notes from Kagan and Rothman, then tried to draw a timeline of Kaithlin’s final days in Miami, but too many gaps existed and the list of suspects was growing.

  R. J., Eunice, Kagan, and Rothman. Who else knew Kaithlin was alive and in Miami?

  I scooped up my ringing phone, with a wave to Rooney as he passed by, whistling on his rounds.

  “Britt, thank God you’re there!”

  “Mr. Broussard? What’s wrong?”

  “You haven’t heard? It’s terrible. What more can they do to me?” He sounded barely able to speak, choked by rage, pain, or grief. “How much more can I take?”

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “I was taking Shannon home tomorrow. Arrangements are made, a service at our church, where we were married, where our daughters were christened. But the funeral home handling things called me a couple of hours ago. The medical examiner’s office refused to release the body to them.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, relieved. “It must be a mistake, some clerical error—”

  “No. You don’t understand. It’s Jordan. He’s claiming her body. They said that legally he’s her next of kin.”

  “R. J.? But from what I understood, he refused to—”

  “He’s changed his mind. She’s my wife, Britt. Our children—”

  “That bastard. Why would he—?”

  “Is there any way to reach him? Can you help me appeal to his better side?”

  If R. J. had one, I’d never seen it.

  “I called my Seattle attorneys,” Broussard said. “They recommended some lawyers here. I wanted to run their names past you. We need to seek an emergency injunction, go before a judge. I just want to take her home on schedule tomorrow and see my girls, tell them about their mom.” His voice broke. “Why is he doing this?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe it’s a mistake. Let me make a few calls and get back to you.”

  Pearl, the overnight attendant on duty at the M.E. office, answered. A determinedly cheerful and savvy black woman, she backs up ten years’ experience at the office with a keen intelligence and innate common sense. Few mistakes occur on her watch.

  “Oh, that one,” she said indignantly. “Nobody wanted that woman for weeks. We were stuck with the body, thought the county was gonna have to bury it—now everybody wants it. They’re fighting over her.”

  “Everybody?” I asked.

  “Yep. Two husbands and a friend. She mighta had a short life, but she musta lived it to the hilt. Looks like she never got divorced. Now the lawyers are getting into the act.”

  “Friend? What friend?”

  “Lemme see. Got the file right here.” I waited while she shuffled papers. “One Myrna Lewis,” she said.

  “Claims the funeral for this one was prearranged, that the deceased’s late mother left specific instructions years ago.”

  “I’d forgotten about that, but it’s true,” I said. “But I thought other arrangements had been made, to ship the body to Seattle.”

  “That’s right. She was going outa here to Lithgow’s this evening, to be prepped for shipping. Then this afternoon, the Lewis woman shows up with a copy of the mother’s will. Wants the deceased picked up by Van Orsdale. An hour later, a hearse from Riverside shows up at the loading dock with a release signed by one Robert J. Jordan, husband. This gal’s got too many dates for the prom.”

  “Did they take her?”

  “No. The chief said to wait, hold onto the body, and straighten things out in the morning. All three parties say they’re hiring lawyers. At one point I had the Lewis woman on hold, husband number two crying on one line, and husband number one cussing me out on the other. But I can tell you one thing right now: Florida State Statute eight-seventy-two, the one that deals with the custody of dead bodies, puts the legal spouse at the head of the list. Then comes a parent. If none of the above claims a deceased, the body goes to anybody willing to pay for the burial.”

  “But she and Broussard, the second husband, lived together as man and wife for the last nine years in Seattle. They have two little daughters.”

  “Then tell me what the hell she’s doing dead in Miami.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  “I tell you,” Pearl said, “my heart goes out to the man with the little girls, but from a strictly legal standpoint he’s last in line. That marriage was bigamous. The first husband is her legal next of kin, followed by the mother’s representative.”

  “The one with the children is talking about an injunction,” I said.

  “So is the little lady, a senior citizen, who claims to represent the deceased’s mother. Should have seen the snit she was in about the first husband getting into the act. I tell you, Britt, a judge is gonna have to rule on this one. And who knows how long that’ll take? Meanwhile, she’s getting raunchier in the fridge. You should see how that body is deteriorating,” she said, annoyed.

  “Eyes drying out and sinking, fingers getting all shriveled and mummified.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I said, my head beginning to ache. “I really didn’t need to know that.”

  “Well, you called me, I didn’t call you. And that’s the straight scoop,” Pearl grumbled. “We’re probably gonna have to embalm that woman ourselves before her body gets any more—”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, wincing. “I’ll call tomorrow. There won’t be any new developments before then, will there?”

  “No way. She’s not going anyplace tonight.”

  What time was it anyway? I wondered, exhausted. Something throbbed behind my eyes. Did I really want to meet Fitzgerald for that drink? I should have called Myrna Lewis. I called R. J. instead. He answered on the first ring.

  “Oh, hey,” he said, his voice thick as though he’d been drinking. “I was expecting someone else.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “I understand you’re claiming Kaithlin’s body.”

  “News travels fast.”

  “Why are you doing it?”

  “I’m her legal next of kin.”

  “I guess you knew that her—the father of her children planned on taking her home tomorrow.”

  “Miami is her home,” he said. “That’s where she was born, raised, and married to me.�
�� Ice tinkled in a glass close to the phone.

  “Why not give the guy a break?”

  “That son-of-a-bitch was screwing my wife while I was sitting on death row!”

  “But he was unaware. He’s an innocent victim.”

  “I’m the victim!” His voice rose. “How do I know he didn’t influence Kaithlin to do what she did? They might have planned it together.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “They met out west after she left you in Daytona.”

  “Nobody has ever even apologized to me!” he shouted.

  There was no reasoning with him.

  “Why didn’t you immediately inform your lawyers when Rothman told you Kaithlin was alive and in Miami?”

  He hesitated. “How did I know he was telling the truth? Nobody ever believed me. We had to find her and produce her first. She wasn’t at the hotel where the detective said she was. My mother was still looking into it when the body was identified.”

  “Why not just hire Rothman?”

  “My mother didn’t trust him.”

  I sighed. “So many people are hurting,” I said. “Why not let him take Kaithlin back to their little girls?”

  “Hell, no,” he said emotionally. “In fact, my lawyers say that as surviving spouse I can file claims against any property she holds jointly with Broussard out there.”

  “How could you?” I said. “You don’t need the money.”

  “Listen,” he said, his tone changing. “I want your honest opinion. Why do you think she came back? Do you think it was that news story, that she realized for the first time that I was close to execution and wanted to prevent it?”

  “I think that’s exactly why she came back,” I said. “She spent a great deal of money, risked everything, and lost her life. Why do you think she did it?”

  “Because she loved me still.” He spoke the words like a prayer, the arrogance in his voice overtaken by something tender and vulnerable. “She always loved me.”

  “Will you let him take her home?”

  “I’ll never let her go again.”

  Heart-heavy, I reached for the phone to call Broussard with the bad news, but it rang first.

  “Britt, thank God you’re there!”