by Tom Corcoran
I had caught myself several times comparing Teresa Barga to Annie. The moments had thoroughly confused me. Smiles are smiles, and smarts are smarts, but attributes and drawbacks can’t be tallied on a net basis. Each woman had found another man. When I found time to question reasons, my vanity would blame vagaries of youth. If time allowed, I might consider the comfort I found in Naomi Douglas. I wondered if I would miss her more than two women less than half her age.
Liska knew Miami, the timing and flow of rush hour. He shifted lanes at key moments, chose quick-toll queues, and never got receipts. We did the turnpike to the airport exit, then crept 836 to within six blocks of Jackson Memorial. He knew his way into the hospital complex, didn’t hesitate to blow three straight stop signs. He was a man on a mission.
Annie stood at the main entrance. She wore a khaki-colored business suit with a knee-length skirt and low-heeled leather shoes. Her hair looked much shorter, darker, no longer light brown and sun-streaked. Mirrored oval sunglasses rested on her high cheekbones.
Liska rolled to a stop where she stood. His electric locks snapped to the open position, and he used his controls to lower my window. “Get in,” he said to her. “We can chat before we do anything.”
I reached behind me to open the door.
Annie didn’t smile, nodded slightly. “Thanks, no. I’ll stay right here. I can make a call or two while I wait for you to park.”
“I’ll get out,” I said.
The locks snapped again. “No,” said Liska.
Do we have a controlling nature?
We prowled the lot, searching for a space. Liska wedged us between a PT Cruiser and new Buick. “Defensive parking,” he said. “You put it next to four-door cars, you reduce door ding exposure.”
His life’s structure was low on my list of topics. We had to hike two hundred yards back to Annie. Halfway in I said, “Why did I stay in the car?”
“I’m the coach, and you’re the water boy.”
“I appreciate your being here, as does Sam, I’m sure. So I’ll wait a few days to ask you what the hell that means.”
“Yeah, Rutledge, good idea. Wait a year.”
Our mood was as lovely as our controlling nature.
Annie closed out a call in time to greet us. She extended her hand to give my knuckles a frat-man crunch. Got to be tough in the mean halls of justice.
“Let’s get going,” said Liska. He had no time for trivial crap like two old friends saying hello.
“Are you here regarding related charges, sir?” Annie replied. “Or separate charges in Monroe County?”
Liska looked off to the pewter sky, inhaled theatrically, then exhaled out the side of his mouth. “I’m sure you’re an honest, ethical attorney, Ms. Minnette. But you need to blow the attitude right out your ass.”
“Okay, that’s fine,” said Annie. “Why don’t you put your face down there? Tell me when it’s loose.”
Liska twisted his head to me, went bug-eyed, then turned back to Annie. “I didn’t drive this goddamn far to work against Sam Wheeler, counselor. In Monroe County, he’s a solid citizen. I want him on the street as bad as you do. If you go in first, the cops and their bosses won’t tell me shit. Right now, if any of us has power at all, I’m the best fucking card you got. Tell me how you want to play.”
Annie said, “You better watch your language, or they won’t believe your badge. You talk more like an attorney than a cop.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s an apology. I should have worked my brain before my mouth. If you had any charges against him, you’d still be in Key West. You would have sent two deputies and told Alex to take a hike.”
“I hope you’re an expert on law like you’re an expert on me.”
“I am,” she said.
I felt like I was at a boxing match, counting jabs and uppercuts, pulled punches, hooks, and kidney shots. I said, “If Sam’s up to it, see if he can tell you the name of the assistant medical examiner who called him on Monday.”
Liska stepped closer, almost to my face. I smelled sour coffee and old Listerine. “I’ll do what I can.” He dropped his voice so Annie couldn’t hear him. “I want to know what went down on Southard three months ago.”
Tit for tat was on the table.
He would be pissed when nothing came to him.
He flipped his badge for a security guard and strode into the building.
After about twenty seconds of silence, Annie said, “Guess I blew it.”
Her summary was shallow. By slamming Liska, she had accused me of bringing an enemy to the fort. Shut up and keep it positive, I told myself, if only for Sam.
“I called about posting bond,” she said.
“I brought money.”
She shook her head. “It’s a no-go.”
I caught cologne that jumped my thoughts back two years, to that exact scent combined with odors of sex, images of Annie shivering and pushing. Focus, Rutledge. How many more men has she had by now?
“They can’t think he’s a flight risk,” I said. “He’s lived in the same house in Key West for twenty years.”
“Miami-Dade has him for assault on a police officer. That’s off the scale. Broward’s list starts with suspicion of murder, police motor vehicle theft, and resisting arrest. He’ll have to face judges in both counties for bond hearings.”
“Even for trumped-up charges?”
“That’s in the movies, Alex. If, by some chance, they’re all phony claims, there’s a benefit. The accusing officers have to perjure themselves from the start. The more cops lie, the more chances we have to find cracks in their stories. You need to tell me everything, a timeline with every detail.”
So I did. I hurried with the call, the flight, and the failed identity match. I emphasized our lunch with Marlow, and Sam’s reaction, his open-ended plan for satisfaction. Annie knew Sam from her years in Key West. She agreed that his mission sounded off-the-wall, agreed with my prediction of no happy ending. I spun it from Odin Marlow to Wally Loads, the tip on Marcantonio, then gave her Denison McKinney’s tale about the stolen motorcycle, the chase, the fake assault, and his reaction to Sam’s side of things.
I quit talking. Annie fixed her eyes on a distant object. I let her digest the details, watched cars pass, two of them stop to drop off elderly women. A funky old green Cavalier sputtered by, wandered down an aisle in search of a parking slot. I could have told the driver he might find a space in a nearby zip code, but he would have to hitchhike in for his appointment.
Annie said, “You always had good sales pitch, Alex.”
“You agree it sounds fishy?”
“Between you and me, it’s fishy. We know Sam, and we know he doesn’t steal Harleys and he doesn’t attack Fish and Wildlife officers. My problem is, I have to peddle this to at least two judges, in one-third as many words.”
“He isn’t allowed to tell his story?”
“You might say that. This is Miami, Alex.”
“With different rules?” I said. “What did they do, ship the Constitution to Haiti with a load of rusty bikes?”
“Crime here is crazy. That’s not news to you. What you don’t know is that I haven’t met a judge who isn’t burned out. They’re impatient, and they make fast decisions. They look to us for guilty pleas with apologies, and not-guilty pleas with proof. They don’t like complicated stories, and they hate defendants who cry ‘dirty cop’ and ‘frame-up.’ If I suggest conspiracy, I will have, from that moment onward, the credibility of a shoplifter who forgot a lamp was under my dress. Your story sounds good. You’ve laid a groundwork that suggests something fishy, which even in Miami isn’t a legal term yet. I’m a good lawyer, but I can’t be a miracle worker.”
“Give me hope,” I said.
“I’ll bust my ass for Sam Wheeler. But the big word in my little speech was ‘proof.’ If we don’t have it, Sam’s fucked.”
“Is that a legal term in Miami?”
“You better believe it is.”<
br />
“You’ve come a long way from selling Guatemalan blouses on Duval Street,” I said.
“I sometimes wonder why I didn’t settle for that instead of the rat race. I keep reminding myself, if I can put up with eight years of the grind, I can be set for life. I also could age twenty in eight, and be in a car wreck the day I quit my job. How are you doing, aside from the way you look?”
“Liska dragged me up here on instant notice. These day-old clothes, I’m lucky to have my shoes. In a larger sense, because I know what you meant, I haven’t had time to change much. Same town, same lane, same house.”
“Are you with someone, or is that topic taboo?”
“Not taboo,” I said. “But it’s a bad one this week. She ran into an old friend. They had too good a reunion.”
“You didn’t suspect?” she said.
“She was out of the house a lot, but she works hard. If I suspected one thing, I’d have to suspect everything. That would take all my time. It’s easier on my nervous system to trust.”
“And then get hurt?”
“Twice in a row my roommates have gone astray.”
“Including me, I gather.”
I nodded. “Why is that, do you suppose?”
“Women are assholes?”
“Usually it’s men,” I said. “I guess these days, to be correct, we can give you equal time.”
“Oh, no,” she laughed. “In the category of assholes, we took our equal time years ago. We caught this disease of trading up. It’s one thing to think about better jobs, but people stress over the size of their homes and cars. The next step, they compare their children and spouses, for Christ’s sake. They can’t exactly trade in their children for next year’s model, but so many of them trade up partners…”
“Has anyone ever heard of contentment?”
“I’m guilty, too. I thought if I left Key West I’d enjoy my work a lot more. Now I hate West Palm. The whole place smells like cars.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“From the first day I drove up U.S. 1, I’ve missed Key West, but I couldn’t come back. First off, I couldn’t face you for what I did. That’s why you get the rare e-mail and zero harassment.”
I hated to think that the word “harassment” applied, but she had broken my heart. I wouldn’t have wanted to hear from her too soon after the split. Now it was good to see her. She looked as if she had been taking better care of herself. Many women fail to do that on the island. They don’t see the slow damage of sun, late nights in smoky bars, and salt air. They let things slide, cut corners on trying to maintain their health. Some gave up entirely, and the progression of aging warps upward. Except, perhaps, for the sunlight, Annie had not let that happen. Now she looked “big city,” with an appealing hairstyle, a touch more makeup, her clothing bought in specialty stores.
Annie said, “Do you think Liska can do any good in there?”
I had no idea what he could do or what he intended. Something steered me in another direction. Hadn’t Sam described the Cavalier’s color as “puke green,” with a license number that began with XSW? I could swear the plate that had just passed us matched up.
Marlow was on the case.
“Can I borrow your phone?” I picked my memory for Liska’s cell number.
Before I could bring it up, he walked outside, clenching his teeth. He got into Annie Minnette’s face. “Young lady, you’d better be the best goddamned lawyer in this county. You’ve got a supreme shithead for a client. He’ll waste your time bad as he wasted mine.”
“In my experience,” Annie said calmly, “the time wasters are law officers with narrow minds.”
“If I didn’t have an open mind,” he said, “I’d be a hundred and forty miles from here. I’d be eating ropa vieja at El Siboney, reminding myself to stop at the dry cleaner’s on my way back to work. I’ll eat lunch there tomorrow, and I’ll remind myself that no way does the douchebag captain appreciate my making this trip. He thought I could drop a dime and spring his ass loose, a move simple and stupid like that. Rutledge, here, needs to check his buddy’s medicine chest, see if the boy’s dropping diet pills or mood-repair tablets.”
“This is helpful, Sheriff,” said Annie. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Do whatever you people do. But imagine a fifty-foot fence across the top of the Keys. I’ll be on one side, in my simple, small county down there. All this bullshit will still be up in Florida. We’ll be fine neighbors.” He began to walk. “Rutledge, you and me, we got one more thing to do.”
“Run along,” said Annie Minnette, contempt cold on her face. “I’ll mop up the mess.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
She shook her head.
I looked back from a hundred yards away. She was in the same spot, speaking into her phone.
24
PEOPLE WITH BADGES IN their wallets fear traffic tickets like they fear ants. Liska left the hospital complex the same way he had arrived. He dropped his Lexus to squad car status—all gas pedal, minimal brakes, no concern for tire wear. I scoped people around us, on sidewalks, in other cars. His hot corners and wheel chirps didn’t turn a head.
Sad, I thought. In Miami, the word “reckless” had lost its charm.
We were off surface streets, westbound on 836 in four minutes. My mood matched the dirty gray sky. We had wasted a trip, squandered time, blown money, knew nothing, and hadn’t helped Sam. I was wedged into the leather, trying to invent a new plan of attack. If I asked our destination, I’d incite a new volley of cynical crap. I was over it.
I figured it out soon enough, anyway. My clue was the LeJeune Road exit. When we turned into Miami International, I knew. After days of wanting that magic flight off the island, my first leg to Grand Cayman, I was about to be dispatched in the opposite direction. Straight back to the rock. Which made no sense. If Liska was going to pack me off, why had he brought me in the first place? He must have known that our mission might not succeed. He had gone into the hospital with a grim outlook, and walked out with worse and me to blame. Something inside had yanked his chain.
I thought fast, trying to evaluate my bind. A short-notice air ticket would cost me a fortune. My best choice was a cab to the Greyhound station, then joyriding the Overseas Highway with a pint of rum, a lime, a bag of Doritos, and a paperback. Hell, I could buy a book with blank pages, kill time writing my diary. Or I could reenact my post-Navy days and thumb down the Keys, catch a tan and count pelicans as I walked the bridges.
We stopped in front of the American check-in booth. Liska double-parked next to a hotel shuttle van, blocking another van that was trying to leave.
I wasn’t going to mess with my cameras and duffel. They’d be safe in the trunk. I said, “What time’s my flight?”
“That’s funny.” He popped the locks. “Let me tell you, if I find one stone chip, one hickey in the windshield, a door ding, God forbid…”
“You remind me of Detective Lewis two days ago,” I said. “Forty-eight hours ago, to the minute.”
“Go ahead.”
“You dip your toe in the water, then pull your leg back in the boat.”
“Your point?” he said.
“I wonder why you did this. Your wild, goddamned hurry, all fact-finding, worried about impressing big-city cops, worried about Sam. Then you rush even worse to get away. Justice goes to the back of the line. You got a hot date in Key West?”
Liska tilted his rearview mirror, checked his teeth for foreign objects. Not that we had seen food since Key Largo. He said, “Did it occur to you that I’ve got other things on my desk besides a self-important fishing captain and his fucked-up ideas about crooked cops?”
“No, it didn’t,” I said, “but I know you don’t waste time with subtlety. And anything I think about you, I should twist it a hundred and eighty. I can warn myself ahead of time about your bullshit.”
“My bullshit’s all in Key West, thanks to the Herald. The murdered mayor is national news, and S
imonton Street’s a mess with TV trucks and satellite bowls and fucknuts with video gear. So, there you are, Rutledge. This is your best day to commit a publicity-free crime in Miami. Every local station sent their news crew to the end of U.S. 1.”
I quit arguing and commanded myself to look at the good side. I wasn’t buying an air ticket.
“My pistol’s in the glove box. Don’t use it, even on yourself. Fill the tank with high test and watch that speed trap in Marathon. Even in my car, I can’t get you out of traffic tickets. You ought to hit Stock Island about five-thirty, so come straight to my office. Don’t make me wait.” He flung open his door without checking for traffic and disappeared into the terminal.
I exited the airport, hurrying to read signs, changing lanes like braiding a camp lanyard. I went right on LeJeune, tried to keep my distance from road hacks and crazies. Three blocks later I pulled into an El Cheapo gas station. I went inside, hurdled the language barrier, and swapped the clerk singles for two pounds of change. Throwing sanitation worries to the winds, I dialed the greasy pay phone on the outside wall between the rest rooms. Five messages waited on my service in Key West.
Monty Aghajanian left his number at the borrowed condo. “Don’t wait to call me. I might be at the pool, but I’ll have a handset with me.”
Jack Spottswood said, “Problems at this end, Alex. Keep it to yourself, but Naomi may have died of a painkiller overdose. One of her life insurance policies is too new to cover suicide. That could screw us up paying estate taxes and expenses. Any luck on finding Ernest Bramblett? Call me as soon as you get back from Grand Cayman. By the way, today’s Herald says that Steve Gomez might have been murdered.”
Marnie Dunwoody, with no surprise: “The county people grabbed Whit Randolph this morning. They found him at Garrison Bight, trying to charter a boat to Ft. Myers. When he saw two marked cars arrive, he chugged his bottle of vodka and dialed out on his phone. They grabbed his phone when they arrested him, and cross directoried the call to a shitbird lawyer in New Orleans who specializes in scam artists. The slime also rises. I’m working three stories at once. I know you would have called me if you had any good news. Call me anyway.”