“Hello. I was a friend of Raul Rodriguez. I’d like to speak to the person who’s in charge of his murder investigation.”
“That would be Detective Norman Fedorovitch.” He pointed a thumb to Paige’s left. “He’s down the hall in 114.”
A long line of people waited to go through security. He always felt sad when he lined up to take his turn at those machines. Americans had become too accustomed to being subjected to routine warrantless searches as a condition of exercising their right to travel. Would that loss of freedom ever be restored? Maybe Americans would wake up and do something about it, but he wasn’t optimistic. Americans were becoming sheep, or perhaps lemmings, prepared to jump over a cliff if their leaders said they had to do it for national security.
After being processed, he marched down the hall to room 114. The door was open, so he walked in. He saw a large room with a series of desks in the center. Partitioned offices lined the walls. He noticed a brass nameplate saying Norman Fedorovitch in the center of a slightly ajar door. He walked over and knocked. The man crouched at the desk appeared to be close to retirement, with thin gray hair and a ruddy complexion. The room smelled of Lysol disinfectant.
“Good morning. My name’s Robert Paige. I was a friend of Raul Rodriguez. I’d like to help with the investigation any way I can.”
“Thanks for the offer, but the FBI took over the investigation. We’re no longer involved.”
Hmmm. I wonder why the FBI’s so interested in this case. “Can you tell me who to contact at the FBI?”
“No. Sorry. We were instructed not to talk to anyone about the case.”
“You can’t even give me a name?”
“No. Can’t do it, buddy.”
“Why is the FBI getting involved? Isn’t this just a local murder case?”
“Look, I can’t talk about it.”
Great. First he had to battle Miami rush hour traffic to get across town. Then he had to put up with federal stonewalling that prevented a public servant from answering simple questions.
“OK. Sorry to bother you.”
“No problem.”
On the way out, he decided to call Priscilla, Raul’s ex-wife. He didn’t have her cell number, but she worked at the Century 21 real estate office in Kendall, or at least she did when he met her a few years ago. He found her number on the Internet and called.
“Hello, this is Priscilla Rodriguez.”
“Hi, Priscilla. This is Bob Paige. We met a few years ago. I was a friend of Raul’s.”
“Hi, Bob. I remember. You’ve heard about Raul?”
“Yes. Could I stop by your office for a few minutes? I’m in Kendall. It won’t take long.”
“Sure. I have an appointment at 12, but I’m free now.”
“Thanks, I’ll be right over.”
He wasn’t too familiar with Kendall. He lived in northeastern Dade County and Kendall was in the southwest quadrant, bordering Biscayne Bay, so he made a few wrong turns before locating her office with the help of his GPS.
He found a place to park a few feet from the front door, which was a stroke of good luck. Parking in some Miami neighborhoods was like trying to find a room in Fort Lauderdale during spring break.
As he walked into the office, Priscilla spotted him.
“Bob, it’s good to see you.” She walked toward him and extended her right hand, which he shook.
The outer office consisted of a waiting area and a few desks, like many real estate offices. Two other agents hovered by the coffee machine, like hawks eyeing potential prey.
She wore a red and black jumpsuit, businesslike but also attractive. She looked good, at least for someone in the 40-50 age range. The problem was that a lot of men liked younger women. That’s why she lost Raul.
It was tough being a woman in Miami. The competition was fierce. Cosmetic surgeons promoted their services on billboards and late-night television. Affordable prices with financing available.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
“Let’s go into my office where we can talk.”
They walked in and she closed the door. A sad expression came over her face. She lifted her chin and looked him in the eyes.
“Raul was a philandering bastard but I still loved him.”
Her eyes started watering and her lower lip quivered. She grabbed a tissue and wiped away tears, working to compose herself as they sat down.
Paige nodded. “Yeah, he was quite a guy. He had his thumb on the pulse of the community.”
“He also had it in other places. He was a chick magnet. Young women couldn’t get enough of him. The older ones too. After a while I’d had enough. But he remained a good provider. He always paid his child support on time and put Mariela and Susana through college. They were proud to be his daughters.”
“Priscilla, I need to ask you, did he receive any threats?”
“Sure. He didn’t tell me about all of them. Raul didn’t want me and our daughters to worry, but I found out about them. He had been receiving threats for years, on and off, usually after talking about the Cuban embargo on his radio show, but sometimes for other things as well.”
“Like what?”
She gazed out the window in silence. The fronds on the palm tree across the street swayed in the breeze.
She turned toward Paige. “Sometimes, when he criticized the government, someone would call him a traitor and tell him to go back to Cuba. He got phone calls or nasty notes threatening to kill him if he didn’t shut up.”
“Did he report those threats to the police?”
“Once in a while he did, but usually not. He would always say that no one was going to intimidate him or silence him.”
“That sounds like Raul. He really liked exercising his right of free speech.”
“That reminds me. Yesterday I got a surprise visit from a pair of FBI guys. They weren’t very nice. In fact, they were nasty. They told me I couldn’t talk to anyone about Raul for national security reasons. If I talked to anyone, they would throw me in jail. And I wouldn’t be able to get out because they wouldn’t allow me to have an attorney.”
Paige shifted in his chair. “Unfortunately, the Patriot Act allows them to do things like that. How did you respond?”
“I was shocked. They didn’t give me their condolences or anything. They just threatened me. I couldn’t wait for them to leave.”
“But you’re talking to me now. Should you be talking to me?”
She stood, placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “They can go to hell. Nobody’s going to silence me. My family didn’t escape from Cuba so that some new government could tell us what to do. We should be telling the government what to do.” The tears were gone, replaced by a look of defiance and determination.
After Paige determined she had nothing more of consequence to share, they engaged in a few minutes of more pleasant conversation about her kids. Then Paige thanked her and left. As he walked out the front door, he couldn’t help wonder. Why was the FBI so interested in this case? Not only did they swipe it out of the hands of the police, they ordered them not to talk about it, and now they threatened Raul’s ex-wife to ensure her quiet obedience.
Why did they take the case in the first place?
Raul hadn’t been involved in drugs or human trafficking, which were two of the main reasons the FBI got involved in local murder cases. There had to be some other reason. What could it be?
As he walked toward the car, he took out his cell phone and called Sveta.
“Hi. Are you free for lunch?”
“No, Robert. I’m too busy today. How about tomorrow?”
He liked her accent. It was cute, and just what he needed at the moment. She trilled her r’s, and his name—Robert—had two of them. When she said “busy” it sounded more like “bee-zee.”
“What did the police say? Could they give you any information?”
He related the conversations he had with the poli
ce and Priscilla.
She paused before responding. “I wonder what they’re trying to hide. Why is the FBI taking such an interest in this case. And why are they being so mean?”
“I don’t know. Yet. But I’m going to find out. I’m going to the Miami Herald. Maybe the reporter who’s covering the case can tell me something.”
“Be careful, Robert. You don’t want to get in trouble with the FBI.”
“Don’t worry about it. I won’t get in trouble. But if I don’t come home for a few days, notify the media and tell them the story.”
“Robert, tell me you’re kidding.”
“Okay, I’m kidding. But if I don’t come home….”
4
Lunch in Kendall
Paige looked at his watch. Lunchtime. The alarm bells in his stomach went off. Two restaurants sat across the street. The one on the left had more palm trees, and outside tables. It was a pleasant, warm Miami day. He wanted to eat outside and watch the people go by.
He strolled across the street and sat at one of the tables closest to the sidewalk. After viewing the traffic and pedestrians for about a minute, he looked up to see a waitress walking toward him. She handed him a menu.
“Good afternoon. What would you like to drink?”
“Ice tea, please.”
“Sweetened?”
“Yes, thank you.”
As she turned around, he enjoyed watching her try to walk in shoes with heels that increased her height by about six inches. The tight skirt was a nice touch too, cinching her knees together. It helped make her waddle more noticeable. Her presence in the restaurant probably increased male attendance by at least 20 percent.
The Jennifer Lopez version of Quién Será played on the sound system. It seemed appropriate for the restaurant, and for Miami in general, although he preferred the Pussycat Doll version, which, in English, was called Sway, but a much different version than the one Dean Martin used to sing. Paige sometimes used the Pussycat Doll version for accompaniment when he competed in forms competitions in Taekwondo tournaments.
A few minutes later, the waitress delivered his tea and took his order.
As he ate, he glanced across the street. Priscilla walked out of the Century 21 office with two men in suits flanking her. One of them held her by the arm. She didn’t look happy, but she accompanied them without resistance or looking around for help. They walked to a car parked illegally in front of the building. The other man opened the door for her and she got in. The car had government license plates.
Paige looked at his watch. Eleven fifty-three. He remembered she had a twelve o’clock appointment. She would be missing it, unless those were the guys she had the appointment with, which he doubted.
He decided he would call her on her cell phone, but not for a few hours. Something felt wrong. Calling now might get her in trouble. He would wait.
After enjoying the view and his fried pork and cheese sandwich he was ready to go. He liked Cuban cuisine. His sandwich had been very tasty, in a salty and greasy sort of way. It was a wonder Cubans could live past the age of fifty without having a heart attack.
5
A Visit to the Radio Station
He needed to visit the Miami Herald and the radio station where Raul had worked. Since the radio station was closer, he headed there first.
In the car, he turned to WTFM, a mostly Spanish-speaking station, although it did have a few English-language programs. Most of the radio personalities and ads bounced back and forth between Spanish and English, sometimes within the same sentence. Paige listened to it occasionally to practice his Spanish.
It took about twenty minutes to drive there in the light pre-rush-hour traffic.
The station occupied a freestanding building in one of the low rent parts of Miami. Not in a seedy neighborhood exactly, but not a safe place to walk at night. The building looked like it could benefit from a little paint.
He went inside and walked straight to the reception desk.
The Hispanic woman behind the desk looked up and smiled at him. She appeared to be in her late thirties and had short, curly black hair with a pink streak on the left side. Her large hoop earrings and chipped green nail polish added to the mystique. She looked like she wanted to make a fashion statement but didn’t know what to say.
“Hi. My name is Robert Paige. I’d like to speak with the manager.”
With surprising efficiency she picked up the phone and tapped a few buttons. “Ricardo, there’s a Robert Paige here to see you.”
Paige could hear a response but couldn’t make out what he said.
“Please have a seat.” She waved in the direction of a couch and some chairs on the other side of the room. “Mr. Diaz will be right with you.”
The manager walked out before he could pick up one of the Spanish language magazines piled on the table.
“Hello, I’m Ricardo Diaz. How may I help you?” He extended his hand, a practiced smile on his face.
Paige shook it. “Hi. Robert Paige. I was a friend of Raul’s.”
Diaz quickly withdrew his hand, his expression altered to one of apprehension.
“I’ll be direct. Can you tell me whether Raul was receiving threats?”
Diaz’s expression turned from apprehensive to worried.
“Ah, Mr. Paige, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Paige sensed the man wanted to say more, but something prevented him from continuing. Paige could see it in his eyes. He was frightened. The silence made Diaz uncomfortable.
Diaz broke the silence. “Some FBI agents visited me this morning. They told me not to discuss the case with anyone. They said if I discussed the case I would be in violation of national security.”
Diaz fell silent, shifted on his feet, and looked out the window. “They told me I couldn’t even tell anyone about their visit.” He glanced at Paige. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about it. I’ve probably said too much already.”
“Do you know who might have killed him?”
“He’d been getting threats for years, but I can’t say any more. Sorry.”
“I respect your position. Thank you for your time.”
They shook hands and Paige left. Another dead end.
On his way out, he glanced at his watch. There was still time to pay a visit to the Miami Herald. Had the FBI been there as well?
6
The Miami Herald
Traffic started to pick up. It took about a half hour to get to the Miami Herald offices. Raul’s boss was John Lasky. Paige didn’t know what his title was, but he remembered Raul used to complain about him for being a spineless piece of shit. He’d killed several of Raul’s columns because of fear they would offend somebody. Raul got incensed just talking about him.
Paige walked through one of the several front doors into a bustling lobby. A male and female receptionist sat behind a counter, chatting with each other.
He approached the one sitting on the left, a woman of retirement age with glasses and close-cropped graying hair.
“Hi. I’d like to see John Lasky.”
“Just a moment.” She turned to the directory on her computer screen. “He’s on the third floor. You can take the elevator over there.” She nodded toward the elevator bank to Paige’s right.
A small group of people waited to get into the next car. As he stepped in line behind them, he smelled two distinctly different fragrances emanating from the women ahead of him.
The doors opened, and the group crammed in. The woman with the sweeter of the two fragrances moved over and stood next to him, which made for a more pleasant ride.
He squeezed out on three, leaving her behind to continue her journey. He looked around to get his directions and strode up to the first person he saw.
“Could you please tell me where I can find John Lasky?”
“His office is down the hall on the left,” he said, pointing.
“Thank you.”
Paige checked the names on the doors as he passed e
ach office. It was much quieter and businesslike here. He felt like he’d stumbled into the middle of a beehive with everyone working silently in their little compartments. After seven or eight doors, he came to Lasky’s office. A middle-aged pencil of a man with glasses sat behind a desk piled with papers in disarray. As Paige walked in, he glanced up from his galleys.
“Yes?”
“My name is Robert Paige. I know you must be busy. I’ll only take a moment of your time.”
“Yes, I am busy. I’m working on deadline. What do you want?”
He sounded a little gruff, much like Raul had described him.
“I was a friend of Raul Rodriguez. I’m hoping you could tell me something about—”
Lasky held up his right hand and cut him short.
“I can’t talk about Raul. Is that it?”
Paige took one of the two visitor’s chairs, sat down, and leaned back. “Well then, may I talk to the reporter who covered the story?”
“He no longer works here.”
What? Raul had been dead for less than forty-eight hours. The Raul story must have been the last one he covered. “Do you know how I can contact him?”
“Nope.”
“How can you not know how to contact him? He worked for you.”
“As I said, I’m on deadline.” He went back to reading his computer screen. Paige continued to sit silently in the chair, staring at Lasky. He thought hoping his presence and silence would trigger a response. It didn’t work.
After about 30 seconds he realized he wouldn’t be able to squeeze any useful information out of this guy.
“Good luck with your deadline.”
“Thanks.” He continued reading the screen as he said it.
Paige turned around and walked out. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t recall the name of the reporter who covered the story, but it would be easy enough to find. The article sat on his kitchen table at home.
As he returned to his car, he decided to give Priscilla a call before starting for home.
Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1) Page 2