Chasing Suspect Three

by Rod Hoisington

  “Yeah, I guess that’s okay. Tell him to phone me saying it’s okay.”

  “I’ll do that, but I can’t reach him today. You know you’re making me do another trip down here?”

  Chuck’s shrug meant rules are rules.

  She pretended to leave, and then turned back. “What about his girlfriend? If she comes over, can she get in?”

  “Seal has her own key,” Kathy said.

  Bingo again. The name was what she was after all along. “Of course, Seal can come over. Thanks guys.” So, her nickname is Seal—maybe short for Cecilia. She stepped away, and then turned again as though thinking. “Her last name is Lopez, isn’t it?” It was the first Latin name that came to mind and worth a shot; with luck they would correct her.

  Kathy chuckled, “You’re not even close.”

  Chuck was now eyeing her suspiciously.

  “I’ll ask John,” Sandy said. Not wanting to push it.

  Once back in her car, she looked up and smiled at the heavens. Learning the name of John’s girlfriend was a fantastic beginning. Even so, with three million people in Dade County the lead could totally fizzle out. She still needed to make some more guesses. A couple of them would have to turn out right.

  Maybe the girlfriend’s name wasn’t Cecilia, which was the first name she thought of. Perhaps, her last name was Seal, or Sealburger, or whatever, and Seal was her nickname. If her first name was in fact Cecilia, where to start looking? She went back into the motel lobby.

  “Hey, Kathy, come take a look at my car. You can sit in the driver’s seat.”

  Without further prompting, the girl trotted around the counter and ran ahead of Sandy to the car. “Can I really get behind the wheel?”

  “Don’t slam the door!”

  Kathy wiggled into the driver’s seat. She moved the wheel back and forth and was instantly flying down Miracle Mile with the wind in her hair, the stereo blaring, while pushing away the awesome young hunk sitting next to her trying to get his hands on her. She was still doing her “Ooohs and Aaahs” when Sandy interrupted her. “John has had an accident, Kathy, I positively must reach Seal. Do you know her last name?”

  “Yeah, it’s Sevilla. A girl in my class has the same last name. Come on let’s do the block in this baby.”

  “Not yet.” Sandy opened her tablet and started a Miami name search. “S-A-V-E-E what?”

  “No, no, the Spanish double L. Let me.” Kathy pushed Sandy’s hands out of the way and in a split-second blur of fingers tapped in the name. She laughed. “How long you be this country?”

  The computer screen blossomed to life and unexpectedly started scrolling page after page of names, addresses and phone numbers. “Geez, there must over a hundred Sevillas in Miami. Do you know her first name?”

  “I just called her Seal like my friend at school.” Chuck was now tapping his foot at the front entrance. “Shit, gotta go. Can’t drive your cool car right now.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” Sandy said. “Maybe next time.”

  Kathy hurried back into the motel. Sandy noticed Chuck didn’t go in but stood out front watching her. Then he took out his phone and started talking. Nothing unusual in that, she supposed. In any case, it was best to get away from the Groveside Motel, before he got any more suspicious. She backed out of the motel parking lot and drove down the block out of Chuck’s sight.

  Hundreds of Sevilla and no first name. Sandy hit the steering wheel with her palm. At the same time, she was pleased with herself. Definite progress. Except for a first name, she had located John’s girlfriend. That brought a grin to her face.

  What now? Have to get that first name. She wondered how John had met the girlfriend. That one was easier; one common place to meet the opposite sex is at work. Maybe they met at the consulate. Worth a try. She sorted through her business cards for Agent Jay Heppard and started to dial Mr. Adorable Kisser. The FBI should have a roster of consulate employees since they’re investigating the place. She could ask Heppard to search the list for a young woman with the last name Sevilla. Would he cooperate?

  Wait. No good. Hand that name to the FBI, and she’d be cutting herself out of the picture, and in return they wouldn’t give her the shell off a peanut. It’d be a year before she finally heard what had gone down. There had to be a better way.

  She stopped at the sign at the end of the block, but instead of turning, for some reason she pulled straight ahead across Bayshore Drive into the parking lot of a large marina. She parked among the palm trees and walked down the dock to the calm water of Biscayne Bay. The scene was right off a postcard.

  The sun was setting at her back and beginning to throw long shadows across the boats at the dock and the large span of water beyond, where sailboats moored on tethers gently nodded their masts at each other. The harsh sun had lessened, and she felt the balmy onshore breeze brushing her face. She had always thought the color of the ocean up at Park Beach was such a marvelous blue; the water in front of her just then was a sparkling turquoise. Unbelievable. “I’ve never seen water so beautiful,” she said aloud.

  “Then you’ve never been to the Florida Keys, the Bahamas, or the Caribbean. It gets bluer and clearer the farther south you go. In the Bahamas you can look down thirty feet and see the bottom.”

  She turned and couldn’t hold back smiling at the tall man standing to her side. She said, “I’ll put all those places on my bucket list.”

  “Your bucket list is easily satisfied. Do you know you’re less than fifty miles from the Bahama Islands right now?” He smiled, his eyes creasing at the corners.

  He was older, salt and pepper hair, yet tanned and athletic looking. Must be a boat owner, a captain, or something like that since he’s around here. Dressed more for an afternoon cocktail party than for any kind of actual effort around boats—white shirt and loose-fitting casual pants, white Dockers, no socks. What a great smile, she thought. Her hand went unconsciously to her tied-back hair.

  “We could be over there before you could say, ‘Bring me another Cosmo.’”

  She smiled politely at his pleasant remark. He didn’t seem to be kidding. At that point, she was soaring over the clouds after her success getting the girlfriend’s last name. She was tempted to cry out, “Bring on the Cosmos.”

  “That’s my boat over there.” He pointed.

  She looked at him and then over to where he was pointing. Could he mean the giant in the middle that dwarfed all other boats? She didn’t know what kind it was, but it was shiny white and gleaming gorgeous. Something off the cover of a lifestyle magazine.

  “I’m R.J.” He held out his hand.

  It felt soft and gentle. “Sandy.”

  A few short months ago, this gal from the Philly burbs thought escapism meant a day at the Jersey Shore. Of course, she knew there was a fascinating luxurious world out there. Now, she was not only standing on the edge of it, she was being invited in. For an instant, she pictured that yacht anchored in some secluded cove in the Bahamas with her body stretched out on deck working on her all-over tan.

  She looked up at the clear blue sky as though seeing it for the first time. She looked out on Biscayne Bay surrounded by lush green on green with the picturesque boats seemingly suspended in the clear turquoise water, and beyond to the endless Atlantic. Then finally, she looked at the man dressed in white and his yacht. They say Miami is magical. It must be. Such scenes just don’t happen without magic, at least not this side of Hollywood.

  “You’re very kind and I’m flattered.” And she was. Nice to be asked, nice to confirm she had something going for her.

  He read the look on her face. “You sized me up very quickly.”

  “You’re the one moving quickly. You’re speeding over ninety, and I’m still back in the school zone,” she said it all very pleasantly.

  “Did you judge me because of my boat over there?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m told the boat makes me better looking.”

  “I think you loo
k fine without it, but your boat does say a lot about you.”

  “As does your MX-5. At first, I thought you were a successful real estate agent, seeing how you’re dressed. Yet, agents don’t tool around in a sporty two-seater. They need room for a house-hunting family.” He took a step back. Speaking of appearances offered him a chance to move his eyes over her body with no embarrassment on his part. “I’d say you’re a lawyer.”

  She blinked hard. Incredible, she thought. She didn’t mind him looking, not that she had that much to look at, if he was going to come out with judgments like that. This sophisticated person looks at her for ten seconds and tells her she looks exactly as she’s always wanted to look.

  “Let’s go get that Cosmo over at the beach bar,” he said, with what he thought was perfect timing.

  “Get thee behind me, Satan.” And she laughed. “Seriously, R.J., you’ve caught me at the best of times and the worst of times. Something very important came my way a few minutes ago. No Cosmo could fly me any higher. Here’s where we say goodbye, the rest of my day is spoken for.”

  “I suppose giving me your phone number is out of the question.”

  She let out a yelp, “The phone number. That’s it!” Her eyes suddenly went wide with excitement. She turned and started running for her car. Over her shoulder, she waved and yelled goodbye to the man.

  She hurried into the front seat; she booted her tablet again, and brought the screen of Sevilla names back up. Then from her briefcase, she took and smoothed out the wrinkled slip of notepaper from the Groveside Motel. She looked closely. The last two digits of the phone number were 69. A bit smeared, but definitely 69. She ran her finger down the screens of Sevilla names, addresses, and phone numbers. Damn, there were eighteen Sevilla phone numbers ending in 69.

  She studied the possible numbers, going back and forth from the screen to the note. Geez, why did the note have to get wet? Was that fourth number a 5? Yes! Only one of the eighteen Sevillas listed had a phone number ending in 69 and a 5 for the fourth number. She had it. She had it! Adela Sevilla on Red Road. If the woman could ID the man in the morgue photos, she was back in business.

  She moved her briefcase from the seat to the floor and started the car. Then she looked down at the briefcase. Had Mr. Fancy Yacht Owner spotted the briefcase on her car seat? Was that why he guessed she was a lawyer? She shook her head. No, he never saw it; anyone could tell she was a lawyer.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Sandy hit the full-blown rush hour on her drive west skirting the southern edge of Miami. She parked across the street and two houses down from a well kept, tropically landscaped duplex on Red Road along the western edge of Coral Gables. No lights were on in the house, there was no response to her knock on the front door. No choice but to wait in the growing darkness for Adela Sevilla to come home. She ran the top up on her car and sat back; she was dying for a cup of coffee, should have stopped along the way.

  At twenty minutes after seven, a blue Corolla pulled into the driveway. A slim young woman, neatly dressed for the office, lifted grocery bags out of the back seat and headed for the front door.

  Sandy caught up with her on the porch. “Miss Sevilla?”

  Adela jumped almost dropping a grocery bag.

  “Sorry to interrupt you. I have news about John.”

  “Go away. I do not know any John.” She fumbled for her door key.

  “I have important news about him. May I come in?”

  “I do not know any John. Please go away.” Then she turned and faced Sandy. “You are his wife, aren’t you? Oh my God.” Her shoulders sagged. “He told me you looked like a witch. Look, he said you two were separated—getting a divorce. I do not want any trouble.”

  “I’m not his wife. May we talk inside? It’s bad news.”

  “I am not letting you in my house. Tell me here.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh.” Adela swallowed hard. She handed the groceries to Sandy and did the sign of the cross. She found her keys and unlocked the door. “Would you please set those down in the kitchen? I will be right back.” She disappeared down the hall.

  Sandy found the light switch, put the milk and butter in the fridge, and walked back to the living room. When Adela didn’t immediately reappear, she began to wonder about the delay. Was she lying prostrate across her bed, making a phone call to the gang, loading a pistol, or what?

  The woman came back out. They sat opposite. She looked at Sandy through red-rimmed eyes and forced a tight smile. “What happened?”

  Sandy hesitated. How should she phrase it? She couldn’t just say murdered. “He was a victim. He was shot.”

  Adela put her hands to her face and started crying.

  Being a stranger, Sandy was uncertain how to react. Nothing she could say other than, “I’m sorry.” John died in a bloody mess nothing further to say about that. She moved over and sat close beside Adela. Should she touch the woman? Cautiously, she put an arm on the woman’s shoulder.

  When Adela felt the touch, she lost it completely. She started to collapse, then caught herself and straightened. “What is your name?”

  “Sandy.”

  “I am Adela. It is not what you think. I was going to break off with him. I am over him.”

  “Yes, I can tell.”

  “I cannot believe he’s gone. He was a great guy—.”

  Sandy waited.

  “We were going to run away. Start a new life. That was before I decided to break up with him.” Her voice was quivering. “It’s funny how sometimes you cannot bring yourself to make a decision, and then suddenly something makes the decision for you. I cannot tell you more.”

  “The drug stuff.”

  Adela’s eyebrows went up. “How did you know?”

  “I’m getting a good reading on your personality. You’re too proud to put up with any drug nonsense. That’s why you wanted to break it off. How did you know about the drugs? Did he tell you?”

  “You must keep all this secret. My family cannot know I was seeing John. Momma met him once and spit on the floor after he left. He had wanted to move in here with me, but my family would have found out and disowned me. I did not know about anything. Then one morning, the FBI and DEA appeared in our office at the consulate. You are not going to tell anyone all this are you? You just cannot.” She shifted toward Sandy and frowned. “Hey, why are you here anyway?”

  “John was brutally murdered. I’m trying to prove who did it, so we can punish the bastard. Have you ever heard of a man named Richie Grant?”

  “That name means nothing to me.”

  Sandy took out the two photos of the unidentified body in the morgue she had gotten from Jaworski. She handed them to Adela. “Here’s his picture.”

  The slight widening of the woman’s eyes gave her away. “Never saw that man before in my life,” she said weakly, and handed them back. Her hands were now trembling.

  “Look again.”

  Without looking, Adela swung hard at Sandy’s hand knocking the photos to the floor. She was shaking and her face was now red. “You have to protect me. I am going to be killed over this. I am absolutely going to be killed within hours. You found me, everyone can find me. I am a dead girl.” She started whimpering again, this time for herself.

  “I need to know about him.”

  She stared hard at Sandy. “No way.”

  “For John’s sake.”

  “I cannot.”

  “John’s soul will never rest in peace until his murderer is punished.”

  “That is not fair.” She put her face down in her hands and spoke between her fingers. “Are not the federals coming here as soon as you leave? Word is going to get back to the drug gang, and then they will come for me. Do you know what those monsters will do to me?” She folded her arms over her chest and hugged herself as though she were freezing. “Have you heard the stories?”

  “Were you one of the employees interviewed at the office?”

  “They swooped dow
n by surprise, took over the whole place. Talked with everyone. Asked a lot of questions about my responsibilities.”

  “Did you tell them you were seeing John?”

  She nodded. “They already knew. Always lots of hanky-panky going on around the place. Some snitch in the office told on everyone. Repeated every possible rumor. They knew about John and me. They know I am not married to him.”

  “What did they say to you then?”

  “Nothing. They just moved on to the next employee.”

  “That’s it? Office gossip stuff and they dropped the questioning of you? I don’t think they’ll bother you again.”

  “If I disappear, will you come looking for me?”

  “You aren’t going to disappear.”

  “If I do? Who’s going to look for me, and see that I have a proper burial?”

  They locked eyes, Sandy saw the fear. “I’ll come looking for you Adela. I found you once, I’ll find you again.” She covered the woman’s hands with her own.

  If Sandy thought she was talking the woman into committing suicide, she wouldn’t press her. Admittedly, there were risks. The FBI knew Adela and John were lovers. Yet, they hadn’t singled her out; they had questioned all the employees. They didn’t dare get too tough, as they were walking on eggshells trying not to upset the Salvadoran officials.

  The drug guys would have no reason to suspect that, of all the employees, Adela was the one who had identified the killer. Sandy alone knew the truth. It was now locked in Sandy’s mind. Waterboarding wouldn’t force her to talk.

  Sandy waited a moment before speaking, “Identifying the killer is just something you do, because it’s the right thing.”

  Adela mumbled, “We remember blessed Adela, because she did the right thing. May she rest in peace.” Then she took a deep breath and made another sign of the cross. “Gerardo Diaz.”

  “Who? The man in the photos?”

  Adela nodded.

  “Oh, bless you. Gerardo Diaz, anything else about him.”

  “He is one of the drivers in the motor pool. I just recognize him. That is all I know.”