Dr. Russell owned the two-story house in Belle Meade, where he lived with his wife, Louise (they had no children), and she had said that they had a limited social life because of his busy schedule. He wasn’t robbed. In addition to the expensive gold Rolex, there was a gold ring set with an onyx and a diamond on his ring finger. His wallet contained eighty-seven dollars and a half dozen credit cards. It was possible, Quevedo suggested in his supplementary report, that the hit man, whoever it was, had hit the wrong man.
Hoke didn’t accept that. The stolen garage door opener interested Hoke. Whoever had stolen the opener from Dr. Russell’s Mercedes had had to be familiar with his habits. The man—or woman—who shot the physician must have known that he would cross the lawn at that point to get back to the front door and put the opener away before returning to his car.
Who had profited from Dr. Russell’s death? Dr. Schwartz and Dr. Farris hadn’t brought in a new doctor to replace Dr. Russell in their clinic. After his death they had split Dr. Russell’s practice between them. They both had profited because of their partnership insurance. Also, and this is what piqued Hoke’s curiosity, four months ago Dr. Leo Schwartz had married the widow, Louise Russell. He now lived with her in the Belle Meade house, a house Dr. Russell’s mortgage insurance had paid off in full at his death. Dr. Schwartz now drove the white Mercedes, and Hoke wondered if Dr. Schwartz was wearing Dr. Russell’s Rolex and ring as well. And why, Hoke wondered, had Louise Russell decided to visit her sister in Orlando at that particular time? The sisters were not close; the Orlando sister had never visited the Russells in Miami. All this, of course, was not known by Sergeant Quevedo.
Whoever had stolen the garage door opener from Dr. Russell’s locked car at the clinic, and then relocked the car door afterward, was probably the murderer or the person who had hired the killer. Hoke suspected that that person was Dr. Leo Schwartz, or perhaps it was Dr. Schwartz and Dr. Max Farris—with an assist, perhaps, from Louise Russell Schwartz? All he had to do was find some proof.
The garage door opener, the spare, had been locked away as evidence, and Hoke had checked it out of the property room (it took Baldy Allen, the property man, more than two hours to find it, three years and three months being a long time for evidence to be stored away), but Hoke was convinced that the opener was the key, somehow, to the case.
Perhaps Dr. Schwartz had taken the original door opener, and if so, instead of throwing it away, he still had it? If so, and if he had also planned three years ago to marry Louise, and if they had been having an affair at that time, he was currenty using the original door opener to get into the garage now that he was married to Louise and living in her house—and driving the white Mercedes. Everything seemed logical; the killer could very well be Dr. Schwartz. Tomorrow, when he got to the office, he would see where Leo Schwartz had been when the murder was committed. There was nothing much in the report about Schwartz, except that he and his partner, Max Farris, both had attended the funeral. Sergeant Quevedo had attended Dr. Russell’s funeral and had copied down the list of everyone who had signed the register. But Quevedo hadn’t checked on any of these people to see where they had been during the murder. It might be a good idea to check the Belle Meade house, too. He would see if this spare opener still opened the garage. If it did, it might mean that Dr. Schwartz did indeed have the original opener—the one stolen from the Mercedes. If the spare didn’t open the garage, it could mean that a new radio signal and new openers had been ordered and that he was on the wrong track….
Hoke fell asleep in the recliner. Ellita brought him a cold beer at ten o’clock and woke him in time to watch the rerun of Hill Street Blues.
4
THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN DETECTIVE TEODORO GONZÁLEZ came into the office, Hoke handed him the garage door opener and told him to go to the late Dr. Russell’s house and see if it would open the garage door. Hoke didn’t tell González why. All he had was a theory, even if the opener did open the garage. If it worked, however, his suspicion would be stronger, and it would confirm that he was at least on to something.
“After I open the garage,” González asked, “should I go inside, or will I need a warrant?”
“All I want you to do,” Hoke said slowly, “and I want you to do it as inconspicuously as possible, is open the door —if it opens. Then, if it opens, push the button and close the door again. If anybody’s around, don’t do it. Drive past the house. Keep circling the block, and don’t let anyone see you open and close the door. If you think Mrs. Schwartz is at home or see her out in the yard, just drive away. Go back later when she isn’t home.”
González slipped the opener into his outside jacket pocket. He was wearing an iridescent lime green linen sports jacket, a black silk T-shirt, with pleated lemon-colored gabardine slacks, and tasseled white Gucci slip-ons.
“And take off that jacket. Your T-shirt’s okay, but that jacket isn’t inconspicuous, and neither are your slacks. So don’t get out of your car either.”
González nodded. He removed his jacket and draped it, silk lining side out, over his arm. “Don’t I check and see what’s in the garage after I open it? I mean, take a quick little survey, something like that? What exactly am I looking for?”
“Nothing. Just see if that gadget opens the door. Then come back and tell me. Do you know where the Belle Meade neighborhood is? How to find the address on Poinciana?”
“I know about where it is. There’s a Publix market at the corner of Poinciana and Dixie, so all I have to do is turn there and follow Poinciana till I get to the address.”
“Okay, then, move out. And come straight back here when you finish trying the opener.”
González hadn’t been promoted to detective-investigator because he had earned it. He had been promoted after only one year of patrol duty in Liberty City because he had a degree in economics from Florida International University. González had a poor sense of direction and often got lost in Miami, even though he had lived in the city for the last ten of his twenty-five years. Hoke almost always found it necessary to brief him about directions before he sent him out of the office to do legwork. On the other hand, González was excellent with figures and had saved both Ellita and Hoke money when he had prepared their income tax returns for them.
Hoke hadn’t realized how much he had depended upon Ellita for detail work until she was no longer his partner. González was barely adequate at best, if he was told exactly what to do. He had no initiative, and Hoke had already asked Brownley for a replacement for González at the earliest opportunity. But the Homicide Division was short-handed, after three recent suspensions and several resignations, and it was unlikely that González would be replaced.
After González left, Hoke took a clean yellow file folder out of the cabinet. He began to grid it with a black felt-tipped pen and a ruler to make up a pool card. There would be forty squares. At two bucks a square, if he sold them all, the winner of the revocation of the no smoking pool would win seventy-eight dollars. After he finished the card, Hoke wrote his name in number three, and Ellita’s in number five and left his cubicle to look for Commander Bill Henderson.
Henderson emerged from the elevator, carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his left hand and his clipboard in his right. He grinned broadly as Hoke approached him, holding up the pool card.
Henderson shook his head. “Forget it, Hoke. There’s been a compromise. There’ll be no smoking in vehicles, but it’ll still be okay inside the building. Not out here in the bull pen, but in offices like yours it’ll be okay. Men can smoke in the John, too. We finally persuaded the new chief that it would be impractical to have men going to and coming from the lot all day and all night.”
“Shit. It took me twenty minutes to make up a pool card.”
“Hang on to it. The new chiefs really gung ho about this no smoking business and may change his mind back again.”
“I don’t see anything wrong about smoking in a patrol car, unless a man’s partner objects.”
&
nbsp; “I don’t either. But that was the compromise. Besides, it doesn’t apply to you because you drive your own car. But it will apply to unmarked cars from the motor pool.”
“Unmarked cars, too? That doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s the rule. I’m going to type up the notice and post it on the bulletin board now—after I finish my coffee.” “Any other truly important news at the meeting?”
“Yeah, there is. Every division’s got to appoint a crack committee. They want us to come up with something or other to help the new Crack-Cocaine Task Force. According to new statistics, Miami’s got more crack houses than New York had speakeasies during Prohibition. So something drastic has to be done. You didn’t shave this morning, Hoke, so you’re the new chairman of our Homicide Crack Committee.”
“You told me yesterday not to shave, you bastard!”
“I know I did. But I don’t have anyone else available just now. You can pick out two more detectives for your committee, and start thinking of ways to crack down on crack abusers and crack houses.”
Hoke ripped up the pool card, tossed it into a waste-basket, and went down to the basement cafeteria. He got a cafe con leche, dark on coffee, and sat at an empty table. He was due in court at ten-thirty, making an appearance as the investigating officer in an old case that had already been continued several times. It would, in all probability, be continued again because the defendant, who had killed his wife with an aluminum baseball bat, had fired his court-appointed lawyer and the court would have to appoint a new one.
Hoke finished his coffee and lighted a Kool, wondering what, if anything, he could come up with (as a homicide detective) to combat the use of crack in Miami. He couldn’t think of anything, except to charge crack sellers with second-degree murder. Crack abusers died off eventually, if they didn’t break the habit. But legislation like that was unlikely. He would select Sergeant Armando Quevedo and Detective Bob Levine for his committee. The three of them could go out for a few beers at Larry’s Hideaway, kick the idea around, and then come up with a meaningless report of some kind. Hoke hadn’t been out drinking with Quevedo and Levine for some months now, and this was a reasonable excuse to have a few beers and shoot the breeze with his old buddies. He was getting too housebound for his own good.
It was unfair of Bill Henderson to make him the chairman, but Hoke didn’t resent the appointment. He knew that if he had been in Henderson’s position, he would have appointed the first man he happened to see, too. The idea was stupid in the first place. A committee like this one was just busywork, another public relations ploy the new chief could hand out to the media to make it look as if something were being done about drug abuse. Education didn’t work, Hoke thought as he stubbed out his butt in the ashtray. He knew he shouldn’t smoke, and he knew he shouldn’t drink, but that hadn’t stopped him from smoking and drinking. So far this year thirty-six Miamians had died from smoking crack, but crack use increased daily.
Hoke returned to his office and slipped into his leisure suit jacket. He decided to drive over to the Metro Justice Building a little early because it was difficult to find a parking space over there. The phone rang.
“Hoke,” Ellita said, when he picked up the phone, “you know the house across the street, the run-down place that’s been for sale for the last year?”
“What about it?”
“A man moved in this morning. They unloaded a van of furniture earlier, and the guy who moved in has a little Henry J. It looks like a brand-new car.”
“You must be mistaken, Ellita. They haven’t made any Henry Js since the fifties.”
“It’s a Henry J, Hoke, and it looks like a new one. After the van left, the man brought a dining room chair out to the lawn, and he’s been sitting and staring over at our house for the last hour. The grass over there’s a foot high, and he looks funny, just sitting there in a chair and staring at our house.”
“What about it? If he bought the house and moved in, he’s entitled to sit on a chair on his front lawn, whether he mows it or not. I’m glad the house finally sold. Now someone’ll have to take care of the yard.”
“I don’t like it, Hoke. I know he can’t see me, or anything like that, because I’m here inside. But every time I go to the front window and look over at him through the curtains, he’s staring directly at our house. He’s wearing a dark blue suit, and it must be ninety out there in the sun. It bothers me.”
“What do you expect me to do about it, Ellita? I’ve got to go to court this morning.”
“I thought maybe you could find out who he is.”
“Hell, you can do that yourself. Call the realtor and ask him. The sign out there was Paulson Realtor, wasn’t it?”
“I already called the realtor, and they let me talk to a Mrs. Anderson. She’s the woman who handled the sale, but she wouldn’t tell me anything. She said if I was interested, the neighborly thing to do would be to go over and introduce myself. Then if he wanted to talk about himself and why he bought the house, it would be up to him.”
“That seems reasonable, Ellita. Why don’t you do that?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that he looks so weird over there. Like a sitting statue or something. Wearing a blue suit.”
“Look, I’ve got to go to court. If you’re afraid of him, take your pistol along—”
“I’m not afraid of him. It’s just that it looks—Never mind. If your case is continued again, will you come home for lunch?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try to call you from the courthouse.”
AS HOKE SUSPECTED IT WOULD BE, THE CASE WAS CONTINUED, although the angry judge said it would be the last time. The new lawyer, a young woman from the public defender’s office, requested a thirty-day delay so she could prepare a defense. Hoke almost felt sorry for her. This was her first homicide case, and she would certainly lose it. The defendant, an insurance salesman and Little League baseball coach, had killed his wife with a bat because she had berated him for not letting their son pitch. His son could neither pitch nor hit, he told the desk sergeant when he turned himself in and handed the bloody bat over and confessed at the station. Hoke had prepared the supplementary reports on the simple case. If the man’s signed confession was allowed as evidence, the guy would go to prison, no matter what kind of defense the attorney attempted.
Hoke called Ellita from the courthouse.
“I’ve been waiting for your call, Hoke—”
“Go ahead and have lunch without me. I’ve got too many things to do today to come home for lunch.”
“I found out who that man is, Hoke. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence. It’s Donald Hutton!”
Hoke laughed. “Hutton’s a common name, Ellita. My Donald Hutton’s still doing twenty-five years in Raiford. A mandatory twenty-five before he’s eligible for parole.”
“You’re wrong, Hoke. This is your Donald Hutton. I went over and introduced myself. He told me he was waiting outside for the water man and the FPL to turn on his utilities. He said he just moved down here from Starke, that’s where Raiford Prison is, and he’s had his furniture and little Henry J in storage for the last ten years. Then he told me his name was Donald Hutton. I didn’t tell him you lived in the house with me, but I’ve got a hunch he already knows that. That’s why he bought the house—”
“Did you ask him if he was in prison?”
“That isn’t something you ask a person you’re meeting for the first time, Hoke. I couldn’t very well say, ‘Did you just get out of prison?,’ could I?”
“I guess not. I’ll check it out while I’m here at the court-house.”
“Call me back. I’m not going out.”
“I’ll call you.”
Hoke recalled the Donald Hutton murder case well. This had been Hoke’s second homicide investigation, and he had worked hard on it, trying to prove himself as a new detective.
Donald Hutton, and his older brother, Virgil (Virgil was five years older than Donald), had moved to Miami from Valdosta,
Georgia, in the sixties. They had started a knotty pine paneling business. They already owned hundreds of acres of pinelands in Georgia, and they specialized in paneling offices and dens in new homes. During the building boom of the early seventies they had prospered in Miami. Eventually they had twenty-two employees. They lived together in an old mansion in the Bayside section of Miami, overlooking Biscayne Bay.
Virgil had married a modestly successful interior designer, a young woman named Marie Weller. She had kept her maiden name when they married, because of her established business. Her new clients were often advised to panel one or two rooms in knotty pine (she could get them a substantial discount). Then Virgil Hutton disappeared.
Donald Hutton had made a nuisance of himself at the police station, demanding that they find his big brother. Virgil had no known enemies, and according to everything Hoke could find out, he had been a “good old boy.” Virgil did the selling for the two-man firm. Donald took care of the paperwork and also supervised the actual paneling that was put in by their hired craftsmen.
Donald also complained to the media, claiming that the police were not looking hard enough for his brother. How could a two-hundred-and-forty-pound man, six feet tall, disappear into the hot, moist air of Miami?
Marie Weller couldn’t understand it either. She and Virgil had been married only for a year and were happy together, she claimed. In fact, they had even talked to the attorney, Randy Mendoza, about the possibility of adopting a child. At thirty-two Marie Weller was capable of bearing a child, but Virgil, forty-three and fifty pounds overweight, had a low sperm count. Virgil had disappeared without a trace. No money had been taken from his bank account, and his Cadillac was still in the three-car garage. His extensive tailored wardrobe was still intact.
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