High Crimes

by William Deverell

  O’Doull had an urge to touch her that was almost overwhelming.

  “Sergeant O’Doull,” she read. “RCMP. God, I’ve got it coming at me from every side.” She put the gun in her purse. O’Doull saw it was a snub-nosed revolver, a .32. “I bought it in a store yesterday,” she said. “A woman can’t be too careful in Miami. Sit down. I can’t offer you anything. Unless you’d like to do a little cocaine. I’ve been tooting it, smoking it. Christ, if I had an outfit, I’d be cranking it. Getting myself so goddamned wired I can’t stop moving.”

  Her motions were jerky, her speech choppy and quick.

  On the bedside table was a package of cigarette tobacco, a mirror, a razor blade, cigarette papers, a small test tube with a cork stopper. It was half-filled with white powder.

  “You’re late,” she said, pacing. “I’ve been busted already and let go. You know all about it, I guess. I was on the ship. I went along for the ride, and the ride got a little too wacky, so I got off.”

  Larochelle was wearing blue jeans and a loose blouse. There were dark areas under her eyes which to O’Doull seemed extravagantly beautiful.

  “I’m not cooperating,” she said. “I’m not giving statements. The people are friends of mine. I wish them luck, but I’m not a part of it anymore. I can’t be arrested twice for the same offence, right? That’s the law. How did you find me? You must be pretty smart for a narc.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, then stood up and walked to the window. “You’re not going to turn me in for nose candy, are you? Only a couple of grams left. You won’t bust me for that.” O’Doull just stood by the window. “Doesn’t look like you’re planning to, anyway.”

  She went to the bed table, pulled a pinch of tobacco, and rolled it between her palms and into a cigarette paper. Then she began hunting frantically around the room for matches.

  O’Doull pulled a matchbook from his pocket, struck a match, and held the flame to her cigarette. She placed a trembling hand on his while she lit it. O’Doull felt a shiver run through him at her touch.

  She shut off the television set. “I usually don’t watch this crap,” she said. “I’m bored. Any sort of low-level diversion will do.” She paused, steadying one hand with the other as she held the cigarette to her lips. “So, a cop walks into my life. He adds more drama to it. What do you want?”

  “Why weren’t you answering your phone?”

  “Too busy trying to stay loaded to chit-chat with anyone. But you are here, Sergeant O’Doull. We are chit-chatting.”

  “You registered under a false name.”

  “What do you want? I’m sorry, would you like a cigarette? I didn’t think.”

  “No, thanks.” Then, “Okay, yeah.” O’Doull rarely smoked, but he was feeling jangled. Larochelle’s pacing was unnerving.

  She rolled up another cigarette. “Do you turn on? I could put some pizzazz into the cigarette. Ever smoke a bazooco? They’re usually made with coke base. You can guess why they call them bazoocos. Look, don’t just sit there staring at me like a puppy dog. What do you want?” She put on a deep voice. “Like, what’s happening man? What’s shakin’?”

  “Why are you staying on in Miami? For a holiday?”

  “Yeah, I love airport hotels. The sound of planes out the window makes me happy. What do you want, Sergeant O’Doull?”

  “You may be implicated in a murder, Miss Larochelle.”

  Her face turned white. “Holy Mother of God,” she said.

  For a while, the only sound was the whirr of the air conditioner.

  “I’m not very good at this end of the police business, Miss Larochelle. I’ll tell you what I know, and you can decide to talk to me if you want. Oh, I forgot. I have to give you a warning. You don’t have to say anything, and anything you say can be used against you.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” There was a catch in her voice.

  “Two nights ago two men were found dead in the penthouse suite of the Mangrove Arms Hotel. Kevin Kelly, Augustin Escarlata. I think you are acquainted with them.” He felt he sounded pompous. Larochelle sat down heavily on the bed, took a deep pull on her cigarette, and blew out a stream of smoke.

  “I believe you were in the hotel around two a.m. I believe you made a phone call to the lobby reporting the deaths.”

  She shook her head.

  “I think you were in the room when they died.”

  This time there was no reaction. Her eyes were large and damp.

  “We have your fingerprints on the telephone.” It was a small lie, but O’Doull was sure her prints were there. “Also, you left something under the mattress in the bedroom.” He cleared his throat. “I think it is possible that you removed a tampon and inserted that test tube of cocaine in your vagina before you left.” Again, he cleared his throat.

  Her smile was unexpected. It was a flicker of a smile, and quickly disappeared. Ash from O’Doull’s cigarette fell on his knee.

  “Escarlata was killed with a blunt instrument. I’m not sure about Kelly. A heart attack, they think.”

  Larochelle took a deep breath. Her words came softly. “Do you think I murdered Augustin? With what you call — a blunt instrument? Do you think that?”

  There was a smile again, a sad one. Her lips were pale.

  “Do you think that, Sergeant? Would I have murdered someone, and then phoned the hotel to report the murder? Did your witness see me walk out of the hotel with my blunt instrument?”

  Her eyes were blinking rapidly.

  Suddenly tears were streaming. She didn’t wipe the tears but let them run, her hands still on her lap.

  “Help me,” she said. “Please help me.”

  O’Doull clung desperately to his chair, holding himself back.

  “I’m afraid. Oh, God, I’m afraid.”

  “What happened, Miss Larochelle? What are you afraid of?”

  “Meyers. Rudy Meyers. Oh, God, he’s trying to kill me, too.”

  Chapter Thirty

  O’Doull went to the bed and sat down by her side. She was sobbing violently.

  “They’ve been watching the hotel,” she said. “They work for him, I’m sure of it. He’s hunting me.” She held his arm. He could feel her fingernails digging into the muscle. “It’s not just the cocaine. I know they’re out there.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m sure he killed them. I saw him in the lobby. He was coming off the elevator. I didn’t think he had seen me. Then I went up to the room, to the penthouse . . . I saw them, dead . . . Oh, God . . . I was panicking, I freaked . . . I came down with my bag . . . I went out. He was there, following me. He had blood on his sleeve. I got a taxi and came here. He must have traced me here somehow.”

  O’Doull felt a spasm of shuddering run through her body. He knew he should be making notes, but there would be time later to get a statement. He wanted desperately to believe her, and although he felt he heard truth in her voice, he knew he had nothing to corroborate the presence of Meyers in the hotel that night. Meyers had told him he slept from midnight to six a.m. A disciplined routine, he had said.

  “Did anyone else see him?”

  “Yes, of course, the clerk. The night clerk.”

  “Anyone else hanging around there? Any girls?”

  “A pross, you mean? I . . . I think so. Maybe.”

  “Miss Larochelle, the clerk didn’t mention anything about a man in the lobby around two a.m.”

  She drew back and stared at him. “My God, you don’t think I’m lying, do you? The night clerk saw him. That pimp! He saw Meyers. He said hello to him. Oh, God, please believe me!”

  O’Doull tried to remember. Had he asked about a male person? Or had his mind been fixed upon a woman, the woman who phoned? But Meyers had no reason to kill the two men. Not Escarlata certainly, his own informer. Yet O’Doull had heard Meyers sa
y he intended to “get rid” of the Cuban. . . .

  Larochelle took his shirt in the ball of her fist. “Please, Sergeant O’Doull, help me. Get me out of Miami. I’ve been sitting here going crazy. I went out once . . . for the gun . . . I’m sure someone was following me . . . Meyers . . . I don’t know. God, when you opened my door, I was in hysterics. I thought it was him.”

  “Why did you run away from the murder scene?”

  “Oh, Christ, I was just thinking: murder, police, I’m going to get busted again if I stay. I grabbed my bag from the bedroom. I knew I was going to need the cocaine. I traded it for the tampon. Oh, God, I just ran! . . . I can’t remember. I must have phoned the hotel about the bodies. I shouldn’t have, maybe.”

  “What were you afraid of?” O’Doull asked.

  She wept quietly for a while. “I was high. I panicked. Coke twists your head. You know what I do for a living. The flight attendant thing — that’s just a sideline. I can’t afford to be around bodies. I just wanted to get home, back up to Canada. That’s all I was thinking.”

  “Do you know why Meyers would want to kill them? What do you know about him?” He felt he was asking too many questions at once. But it was important to get what he could from her now, while she was vulnerable and talking.

  She drew away and looked at him. “He’s working for you. He’s a narc, isn’t he? Boy, you guys have a tiger by the tail.”

  “He’s helping us, yes . . .”

  “That’s why he killed Kevin. Kevin blew his cover!” She spoke slowly, then accelerated. “I went out that night to score a little dust, and Kevin was coming in. He said, ‘I got the inside scoop on Meyers.’ That’s what he said. He said: ‘I was right all along.’ I don’t know how he found out. He was in a smoke-easy, he said. They have these underground bars in Miami, where you can smoke dope. He must have met somebody on the inside, somebody who knew. He had always suspected. But that night he was certain. Jesus Christ, I need a hit.”

  She got up, went to the night table, and chopped two lines of cocaine with the razor blade.

  “I guess he went up to the penthouse and confronted Meyers. Meyers killed him. Somehow. How did he do it? And Augustin. Oh, God.” She ran to the bathroom. O’Doull heard her coughing and spitting. She probably had nothing in her stomach by now, if she had been throwing up like this all day. After a few minutes she returned, and rolled up a bill, and snorted the two lines.

  “You’re sure that’s wise?” O’Doull asked.

  “I’m not looking for wisdom. I’m looking for escape.”

  “Why would he kill Augustin?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know. Kill one, kill two, what’s the difference?” The coke, strangely, seemed to calm her. “Jesus, you guys are going to be doing some fancy covering up on this one.” She sat beside him again. “God, two days in Miami, and my world has fallen apart. Can they charge me with anything? In Canada? I did leave the boat.”

  “No,” O’Doull said. “Unless you try to meet the ship when it comes in.”

  “Take me back to Canada with you. I’ll try to cooperate. I’ll give a statement. Not against the guys on the ship. But for the murders.” She began rolling another cigarette. “They’ll never charge Meyers, will they? They’ll cover it up, maybe try to pin it on somebody else. Or just write it off as another unsolved crime. Oh, shit, get me out of here. Take me back to Canada!”

  “I’m not going back just yet,” O’Doull said. “Maybe not for a day or two. But I’m going to take you with me now.”

  “Where?”

  “We’re going back to the hotel, and I’m going to ask a few more questions.”

  “I know the clerk saw me, Sergeant. Peabody. He introduced himself to me.”

  “We’ll see.”

  She smiled a little. “Am I your prisoner?” She started undoing her blouse. “I’m going to have a shower. If I’m allowed.”

  She went into the bathroom, and O’Doull waited until he heard the sound of the shower, then he began to go quickly through her handbag and traveling case. The gun he put in his pocket. He found some loose marijuana in her purse. It smelled sweet and powerful. In the traveling case: clothing, jewelry, traveler’s oddments. He carefully removed some undergarments and probed around with his other hand.

  “Are you going to try them on, or what?” She was leaning against the bathroom doorway, watching him. He realized he was holding a pair of bikini panties in his hand. “Is there anything else you want to see?” she said. “Just ask; I’ll show you.” She let the towel slip from her body, then disappeared behind the shower curtain.

  The bathroom door was open. O’Doull knew that if he remained standing by it, he would see her stepping out of the shower. He took a deep breath, forced himself away, and opened a window, letting the warm air fan him.

  He heard the shower turn off, and then heard her voice behind him.

  “If you’re shy, don’t turn around. Do you buy dinner for prisoners? Should I wear a bra?”

  O’Doull pretended to be interested in the Eastern Airlines jetliner that was passing outside, accelerating noisily as it climbed over Miami.

  “The gun isn’t loaded, by the way,” she said. “I didn’t even buy any bullets for it. I don’t know anything about guns. It was just to scare him off.”

  He turned around. She was standing in the middle of the room, watching him. She was wearing a simple green dress, no makeup. She had not even tried to cover the darkness under her eyes. It gave them a soulful quality.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  O’Doull noticed the cocaine was gone, packed no doubt in her overnight case which he, gallantly, was carrying for her.

  As she paid her hotel bill, O’Doull glanced about the lobby and outside, through the windows. He saw no one who looked as if he might be one of Meyers’s crew. He led Larochelle to his car.

  “We have a few hours to kill,” he said. He looked at his watch: three o’clock. The night clerk would not be on duty until about seven. “We’ll take a drive.”

  He followed a map to the West Dade Expressway, then turned south, to the Keys. Larochelle didn’t speak, but seemed to be getting nervous again. She was fidgeting.

  They were ten miles down the expressway. “What are you looking at?” she said. His eyes had been studying the rearview mirror.

  “The panel truck behind us — I passed it a few miles back, and now it’s just sitting there, a hundred yards back.” In the left lane, a Ford station wagon accelerated past him about fifty yards, then slowed to O’Doull’s speed. “And that guy was behind us almost all the way from the hotel. Watch for a third vehicle.”

  O’Doull knew that experts followed in three-car teams, trading positions to avoid detection.

  After a while, the third vehicle appeared, an Oldsmobile, moving between him and the panel truck. There were two men in it. There were also two men in the station wagon. He had seen only one in the panel truck.

  O’Doull raised his speed by eight miles an hour and held it for six miles. The vehicles in front and in back of him maintained their distances. Then he slowed by fifteen. The Oldsmobile raced past him, ahead of the station wagon. O’Doull got a glimpse of the two men in the Oldsmobile. The driver was black, the passenger looked Latin. The panel truck remained behind him.

  O’Doull’s car followed the station wagon over the bridge to Key Largo. As they drove through Islamarada, O’Doull spotted the Oldsmobile sitting by a roadside café. It began to follow them again. The panel truck had now disappeared, but the station wagon was still in front of him.

  They pulled into a hamburger stand. O’Doull saw the Oldsmobile drive past, without slowing. Then the panel truck. The driver had a hand microphone raised to his mouth.

  After a few minutes O’Doull pulled out and carried on a little farther on the Key West highway. He saw nothing following them. O’Doull bega
n to wonder if he had been daydreaming again. What if he wanted to believe Larochelle’s story about people following her, wanted to believe the business about Meyers?

  They were on Grassy Key when he next saw the station wagon, coming up from behind them. O’Doull spun off the highway onto a gravel driveway, did a backwards U-turn, then returned to the highway, going northeast, towards Miami. The station wagon, then the Oldsmobile, swished past in the opposite direction. Again, O’Doull caught a glimpse of the driver of the Olds, and there was something familiar about him.

  “Did you see them?” he asked. “Did they look like the men who had been following you?”

  “I think so. I can’t be sure. What should we do?”

  “Well, one thing we shouldn’t do is try to outrun them. This isn’t a movie, and I don’t have a fast car.”

  The Oldsmobile was behind them again. O’Doull took an alternate route from Key Largo to the mainland, off Route 1, onto 905. The pursuing car remained half a mile behind them. They had been driving for three hours, and dusk was falling.

  For the first time since O’Doull had become a policeman, he was feeling a rush of danger. He wondered whether he should try to confront the men in a public place. But if in fact he were dealing with men from Meyers, it was too early to do that, maybe too dangerous.

  “Put what you absolutely need into your handbag,” he told Larochelle. “We’re going to leave your overnight case behind.”

  “Cocaine, pot, toothbrush, and a spare pair of panties,” she said. “Okay, now what?”

  “We’re going to pull into that Shell station, and I’m going to fill up. You go in like you’re going to the washroom. I’ll leave the car at the pump with the motor running and go in, too. I’m counting on there being a back door into the alley.”

  “You’re going to leave the car behind?”

  “I’ll phone and explain, pick the car up later.”

  It turned out to be easy. The alley was deserted. They cut between some buildings, onto a dark street, then across somebody’s yard to another lane. O’Doull decided to stay there, behind a garage, for fifteen minutes.