Act of Betrayal

by Edna Buchanan

  “I’m coming from North Miami, so it’ll take a bit, but I’m on the way.”

  I took a seat in a threadbare chair, trying not to stare at the suspicious tarp in the corner.

  “We escaped,” Bravo resumed, as though there had been no interruption. “But Antonio, he and other brave men were betrayed, and captured again, in the mountains of Pinar del Rio. Your father’s trial before the Revolutionary Tribunal took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes! At age twenty-four he was sentenced to death by firing squad.” His eyes returned to the picture. “He dedicated his life to bringing down the Castro regime. His death made us all fight harder.”

  “So he did keep a diary.” Why was it impossible to keep anybody on track when discussing the diary?

  “Of course,” Bravo snapped. He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. “We must find it before it falls into the wrong hands and is destroyed.”

  Were we on the same wavelength here? “What do you mean? Reyes probably has it stored somewhere.”

  “No, no.” Bravo began to pace. “Reyes wants it, but we must pray that he has not seized it.” His eyes turned to the statue on the mantel and he crossed himself.

  “Wait a minute, let’s start again. Why don’t you think Reyes has it?”

  Bravo stopped in front of my chair. “For years it was in the possession of the Castro government but it came to Miami recently, brought by a balsno.”

  “A rafter?”

  “Si, a former Cuban government employee. We expected it, we were waiting for it to be delivered to—”

  “We?”

  “Alex, Alex Aguirre.” Bravo leaned forward, speaking passionately, with impatience. “You don’t understand. Your father learned the name of the man who betrayed him and the others. It is there on those pages written before his execution. Alex said it would be the story of his lifetime. An expose. He planned to read Antonio’s words in a live broadcast.” Bravo slammed his damaged fist into his palm. “Then Alex was assassinated! Now the balsero who was to deliver the diary to us has gone into hiding. He must believe that his life is also in danger. And it is true.”

  His eyes locked on mine, lips parted, awaiting my reply.

  What a hell of a story. If true. That was my first reaction, true being the operant word. Obsessed freedom fighters are known for their grassy knollism, conspiracy theories, and for complicating simple matters. That lack of credibility rubs off on any luckless journalist caught in their web.

  “But why? And why would Reyes…”

  “Because,” he spat, “Reyes is the traitor. I have always been certain that it was so. But we needed the proof.”

  I sighed. “Why would Reyes betray my father?”

  “Reyes was a Castro agent.”

  “But he hates Fidel, he spent time in a Castro prison himself…” I felt exasperated. “Do the police know this theory about Alex’s murder?”

  Bravo shook his head vehemently. “No policia, they are useless, corrupt. Many work for him.”

  Of course, I thought, they are all involved as well, conspirators under every bed. The doorbell rang at the right moment. Lottie was dressed for a date, except for the cameras slung from leather straps around her neck.

  “You don’t know the evening I’ve had,” she muttered.

  “Did you go to dinner?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, “I went to dinner all right.” Her evening had obviously not been all candlelight and roses. But she bustled in, all business, and charmed Bravo with her smile. She scoped out the picture over the mantel, snapped a short telephoto lens onto her Nikon, took the flash off the camera, and held it to the side to prevent a reflection on the glass.

  Then she shot the picture, then one of me standing in front of the picture. Then she insisted on me and Bravo posing together, another of Bravo alone, then finally one of him and his shy wife. Bravo posed, chin held high, cane hidden from the camera’s eye.

  “We must find Antonio’s diario,” he muttered in my ear as we left.

  “I’ll check with Reyes,” I said absently.

  “No! Tell him nothing,” he warned. “Use caution. The man is a monster.”

  “What the devil was that all about?” Lottie demanded as we piled into her car.

  “The usual intrigue. Did you see my dad? Didn’t he look dashing? So young. It’s hard to believe that he was younger then than I am now. I really want his diary.” I told her about Bravo’s wild theories. “I also think the man has a living room full of illegal weapons.”

  “That stuff under the tarp in the corner? I didn’t want to ask…” Lottie glanced at me with concern. “You’re not gonna start spending your time digging into old calamities, are you?”

  “Not when you have new ones to share. What happened to your date tonight?”

  “Stosh took me out for a fancy dinner at Mark’s Place,” she began.

  “Not bad,” I said, “a four-star restaurant.”

  “Outstanding,” she said grimly. “It was awesome. Outta sight. I had the conch and green mango chutney for an appetizer.”

  “How’d they fix it?” I hadn’t eaten all day.

  “The conch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Grilled, skewered,” she said, stopping for a red light. “I sorta suspected Stosh was watching the clock Saw ’im check his watch during the main course.” She cut her eyes at me. “Mine was sautéd yellowtail snapper with Oriental black bean and shiitake sauce.”

  “What did they serve with it?”

  She sighed impatiently and accelerated on the green. “Scented rice with gulf shrimp and calico scallops.”

  “Twenty minutes ago all I wanted was a quarter pounder with cheese.”

  “His beeper goes off during dessert.”

  “Dessert?” I said dreamily.

  “’emergency,’ he says, trotting back from the phone. A client just got busted on a murder-one charge. ‘Who?’ I ask and he spits out a name I don’t recognize. Willy Santana. Has to beat feet over to the jail, he says, ‘cuz the cops are trying to question his client illegally.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “But Santana doesn’t ring a bell. Did he mention the victims name?”

  She shook her head. “He pecks me on the cheek. ‘Can you take a cab home, Baby Face? Will you be all right?’ Hell all Friday, Britt, I’m an understanding woman, right?”

  “Definitely.”

  “He hands me a credit card to pay the tab and hauls ass.”

  “That’s too bad, Lottie, but—”

  “I’m fine,” she interrupted, voice stressed, “I’m fine with all that. Lord knows we’ve run out on enough dates because of breaking news. It’s the man’s job. I understand. I’m okay. I finish my chocolate truffle terrine and my cafe calypso and ask the waiter to call me a cab. He brings the check and I drop Stosh’s credit card onto his little silver tray.”

  She paused for effect. “That’s when it happened.”

  The card was maxed out, I thought. I was beginning to feel like I knew Stosh well, and the more I knew the less I liked.

  “The waiter says, ‘Sorry, madam, we are not Sears.’”

  “Sears?”

  “He left me his dag-blasted Sears card!”

  “What did you do?”

  “Used my American Express.” She stomped the gas.

  “Stosh may have mistaken Sears for another card, the lighting is soft, he was in a hurry.” I couldn’t believe I was giving the Polish Prince the benefit of the doubt. “Although with his track record…”

  “He went to the men’s room right after the salad.” She glanced over. “Organic baby greens with Gorgonzola cheese.”

  “Think he set up the page then?”

  “One way to find out,” she said.

  “Yup. I’ll check the jail, see if his so-called client was really booked. What was that name, Santana? Now, tell me all about that chocolate terrine.”

  The streetlights cast a g
reenish glow through the sweltering night and electricity crackled on the streets. I knew in my bones that bizarre events were happening somewhere out there in the dark, I could feel it.

  “You tired?” Lottie asked when she dropped me at my car in front of La Cafecita.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Me neither. Let’s go back to the office,” she said. “I’ll soup the film and print your pictures. While I do that, you call the jail and see who got busted tonight.” She smiled. “And we can get you some Fritos and stuff outta the vending machine.”

  “Sounds good to me. What did that dinner with Stosh cost?”

  “That man owes me a hundred and fifty-seven bucks. I tipped well.”

  We parked next to each other in the nearly empty parking garage beneath the News building just after midnight. I used my key and we entered the lobby through a back door. The lone elevator operating at that hour stood waiting. No security guards in sight. We stepped into the newsroom, still brightly lit and cool, cursors winking on blank computer screens and silent TV monitors playing to an empty room. I love the office at this hour, no ringing phones, no pesky editors. I dropped my purse on my desk and Lottie turned to head for photo when we heard it. A muffled moan.

  We exchanged glances and moved quietly toward the executive editors glass-enclosed office. The blinds were drawn, as always. Holding my breath, I strained to hear. There it was again. Gasps. Another groan.

  Chills swept across my bare arms and the hair on the back of my neck prickled. The door, usually locked at night, stood slightly ajar. More noises. A choking, gargling sound.

  Lottie kicked the door open with the toe of her boot. Something red had pooled on the floor. Blood? And a bare foot.

  Taking a deep breath, I barged in as Lottie hit the lights.

  “Whoops!” I spun around, bumping into Lottie right behind me. We stumbled together trying to get out of each other’s way.

  “Great horned toads!” Lottie swept me aside and raised her camera. The flash caught flailing bare limbs and scrambling bodies. Another burst of light reflected off Ron Sadler’s pale buttocks as he dove for his pants. Gretchen, eyes wide, mouth open, covered her bouncing breasts with both hands.

  “Excuse me,” I said stupidly, as Lottie fired off another flash.

  “Stop them!” Gretchen cried, snatching a silky red half slip off the floor and pulling it over her head.

  Ron, hopping on one foot trying to pull on his pants, mumbled something unintelligible.

  “Whoa!” yelped Lottie, as we both backed out of the office, in a final explosion of light.

  The door slammed behind us and we both collapsed, convulsed in laughter.

  “Now we … know … what happened to Ron,” I said, gasping for breath. “Remember … we both said he’d changed.”

  “I’ll be cow kicked. I thought TV went to his head, got him all gussied up. It was Gretchen. You hear those moans? Like a pig stuck under a gate. Think his wife knows?” Lottie asked.

  A muttered argument was under way inside the executive office.

  ““What chutzpa! I can’t believe they did it in there. If the old man finds out…” I wiped away tears and sniffled. “I can’t believe you shot pictures!”

  “I didn’t,” Lottie whispered. “No film in that camera. But hell.” She grinned. “They don’t know that. Let’s get outta here.”

  We high-fived and escaped back out into the night.

  12

  I checked the jail log from home that night. No Santana booked for anything from misdemeanor to murder. I decided to wait until morning to break the bad news to Lottie. I also called homicide about Alex Aguirre. A midnight-shift detective said they were checking a tip that Alex had been seen recently with a known drug trafficker. So far it seemed innocent. The two were old high school buddies and varsity baseball teammates, who apparently hadn’t seen each other in years. They had had a drink and talked over old times after a chance encounter in a restaurant. Alex’s financial dealings were also being probed in search of a motive. So was his relationship with his wife and the possibility that he had been mistaken for someone else.

  The latter seemed highly unlikely, and the former had yielded nothing suspect so far.

  “Anything to link it to Cuban politics, old feuds among freedom fighters?”

  “Nah, Aguirre grew up here. Ain’t seen no true political assassinations among our local Cuban brothers in years.”

  At one time it seemed as though every exile killed in Miami was a member of Brigade 2506. Had the death rate continued at that pace, Bay of Pigs veterans would be as rare as yellow-bellied sapsuckers. Fellow brigade members always blamed Castro agents, politics, and international intrigue for the slayings. But most were motivated by drinking, drugs, and love triangles, the usual vices most murder victims die for. Many men passionate about liberating Cuba turned to narcotics trafficking to fund the battle but soon became so caught up in that life that they forgot the cause and got rich, or dead, instead. When the motive really was political, it was invariably internal, the A team battling the B team over fund-raising and how the proceeds were being spent.

  I slept little that night, my thoughts careening down strange highways at seventy miles an hour. I called Lottie early next morning. “He was running a scam,” I said flatly. “No Santana arrested.”

  There was a silence and I heard her breathe deeply. “Then that’s it,” she said.

  Ron, Gretchen, and their dubious judgment were a more cheerful diversion. Heads had rolled when the executive editor discovered late night high-stakes newsroom poker games. When you work for a daily newspaper, there is always somebody who will tell. Our business, after all, is disseminating the news. That scandal cost the night editor his job. How would the executive editor react to news of the workout on his office couch?

  “Gretchen is so ambitious,” I said, “on the corporate fast track. Why would she risk it all? It’s not as if there are no motel rooms in this city.”

  “It’s all connected,” Lottie said flatly. “Sex. Power. Passion. Why do you think they were in the office, on the couch where the President himself has sat when courting the media? I’m surprised it wasn’t on the old man’s desk. That was probably their next move.”

  “But it’s so stupid.”

  “Look at politicians. Why you think sex gets so many of them in trouble? Politics and sex: same kinda power trip. Lookit Gary Hart, the Kennedys, Packwood.”

  “Ron and Gretchen must be sweating it today,” I said.

  “No bout adout it.”

  “Probably expect to see their bare bottoms plastered on every bulletin board in the building.”

  “Or sent out on the AP wire.”

  “They probably have no idea that we wouldn’t stoop to their level.”

  “We wouldn’t?”

  “Only if provoked.” We both laughed.

  My beat was relatively quiet that morning, aside from fowl play at the courthouse. Miami’s criminal defendants rely increasingly on the occult to ensure the outcome of their cases. That makes the Voodoo Squad, a special team of janitors, a necessity. Their job: to remove the decapitated chickens, roosters, and dead goats from the courthouse steps each morning.

  Public relations geniuses dubbed Miami the Magic City many years ago. This was not what they had in mind.

  The modern, high-tech justice system grinds on, with its closed-circuit TV, metal detectors, and computer imaging, while the Voodoo Squad sweeps up black pepper and vacuums away the white voodoo powder scattered in empty courtrooms. Papers bearing the names of the judges, lawyers, defendants, and witnesses are burned, and the ashes mixed with the white powder, which is sprinkled around the jury box to tilt justice in favor of the accused. Believers insist the black pepper will keep defendants in jail, and that cow’s tongues bound with twine and dead lizards with mouths wired shut will silence snitches.

  Smashed eggs are believed to result in the collapse of a p
rosecutor’s case.

  Some mornings, Voodoo Central, the narrow street between the Justice Budding and the jail looks like a barnyard disaster. Now, after the hectic week of the full moon, their busiest time, the Voodoo Squad was on strike for beefed-up benefits, including hazard pay, before continuing to interfere with hexes and witchcraft. It was the first day of their walkout, and courthouse employees were already complaining about the odor. Hot dog vendors usually stationed outside the building had been forced to relocate to new turf upwind.

  Back at the News, the lovers’ relationship seemed strained. They did not look at each other at all. Gretchen approached my desk after most people went to lunch and the newsroom was relatively empty. Fashionably dressed as ever, in a military detailed coatdress, she did not seem quite as overbearing as usual. In fact, she looked positively harried. Red undies, I thought, and grinned up at her.

  The wire copy in her right hand quivered imperceptibly, but there was no tremor in her voice. “Britt.” She spoke quietly, making sure we were not overheard. “I hope you and Lottie plan to be discreet.”

  I nearly felt sorry for her, well aware that there but for the grace of God … but then remembered all the times…

  “What exactly do you mean, Gretchen?”

  “Britt, try to put yourself in my position,” she hissed.

  “Frankly, Gretchen, I can’t,” I said, glancing back at Ron’s desk. I reached for my ringing telephone as she stalked away.

  A Metro-Dade missing-persons detective was on the line. He had been contacted about two more out-of-town cases that fit the lost boys’ profile. Twelve and counting. Where would it end? I wondered, entering a runaway from Texas and a young wanderer from Boston into my notes.

  Later that afternoon I slipped out of the newsroom and drove south to Little Havana. The small, well-kept house was shaded by a carambola tree heavy with sweet star-shaped fruit. The delicate flowers of a tabebuia had drifted down, carpeting the ground in soft pink. The Mexican heather and impatiens were looking a bit faded, however, and oddly in need of care. Her friend Berta answered the door and called over her shoulder to my Aunt Odalys, “She is here.”