The county mayor, other politicos, and their hangers-on began arriving to express their shock and to take advantage of the photo ops. Swarmed by reporters, they lamented the loss and extolled Sonny’s virtues. The man had sprouted a halo and wings. He would have loved it.
It is the norm for Miami politicians, exposed, indicted, even convicted, to be overwhelmingly reelected by voters who are apparently brain dead or, in some cases, literally dead, as recent voter fraud investigations revealed. Sometimes, a felony record seems a prerequisite for holding office.
Sonny was the classic comeback kid. Stung by scandal, sued by the state, blasted by the press, indicted by the feds, and down for the count, he always bounced back to the top.
He would not be back from this one.
Shortly after their return from notifying the widow, the chief and the two detectives agreed to talk to the press. Politicians rushed to join them, pushing and shoving, jockeying for position in front of the cameras.
The chief grimly confirmed that the victim was indeed Sonny and introduced the detectives, who acknowledged that the Kiss-Me Killer might indeed be the suspect. They disclosed only the barest of details. The cigar and the Viagra went unmentioned, along with other specifics. They acknowledged the cocaine, which had field-tested positive, only after direct questions from reporters who knew Sonny’s reputation.
They asked for the public’s assistance in locating the commissioner’s missing midnight-blue Mercedes-Benz C43, a sleek high-performance model, top speed one hundred and fifty-five miles an hour and zero to sixty in six seconds.
The midnight shift remained on overtime, the day shift had arrived, off-duty personnel had been mustered, and a grid search of the entire city was taking place, street by street, alley by alley. Private security guards in golf carts scoured the parking facilities at condos and apartment complexes.
She had never stayed long in one place, and 1 wondered why they focused on the city. I envisioned the Mercedes, its powerful engine whining, flying low across the Seven Mile Bridge in the Keys. Continuing south would be a mistake, I thought. There is only one road in and out of Key West and no place left to run at the end.
Miami’s more muscular mayor wrestled the microphone away from the county mayor and upstaged him, announcing that the city was posting an additional $25,000 reward for arrest and conviction of the killer. He made an emotional plea for calm in the face of this latest crisis.
“We are sending a message,” he said, “that we will not tolerate violence against our duly elected officials or any citizen of this great city. This heinous crime will not go unpunished. We will not be cowed by those who…” and so on and so on and so on. Blah-blah, blah-blah, blah-blah-blah. The press corps stopped taking notes, eyes glazing, until somebody showed up with a copy of the News. They crowded around.
The headline, in six-column 72-point Bodoni:
MIAMI COMMISSIONER SLAIN AT MOTEL
with three lines of 30-point subhead:
SALADRIGAS POSSIBLE FIFTH VICTIM
OF NOTORIOUS KISS-ME KILLER;
FEMALE SUSPECT FLEES IN HIS MERCEDES
Howls of protest rose. Complaints from news directors and station managers would surely follow, charging Miami police with favoritism and demanding to know why we had the story first. Who would believe that I happened to be in the right place at the right moment—that I was meant to own this story?
The medical examiner’s van rolled up, exciting the TV crews, whetting their appetites for the footage they crave. Sonny Saladrigas, covered by the same purple blanket, would be maneuvered down the stairs on the same stretcher, plopped onto the same gurney, and slid into the same morgue wagon by the same crew that removes countless anonymous victims whose deaths go virtually unnoticed. Nobody holds press conferences or authorizes overtime to solve their murders.
No reason for me to stay. I drove to the Saladrigas home in Coconut Grove. Lottie had finally surfaced and met me there. She looked tired but radiant.
“So where were you during Sonny’s last date?”
“Tex chartered us a boat,” she murmured, rolling her eyes. “The captain, a Cuban guy he met somewhere, took us out to one of them little spoil islands, built us a campfire. Brought everything: music, blankets, gourmet food and wine. Had our own private beach. Then the captain says Adios, muchachos, he’d be back when Tex beeped ’im.”
“What about the rain?”
“For a while I wasn’t sure they didn’t arrange that too, like movie crews do. The rain was like a mirage, a fantasy, like being trapped by a typhoon on a deserted tropical island with a handsome, sexy stud. We ran for cover, a lil’ tin-roofed shelter. Shoulda heard the rain pounding on that tin roof, the wind whistling, palms bending in the storm. It got a little chilly, so we had to keep each other warm—”
“I get the picture,” I said.
“Left my beeper behind,” she admitted. “For the first time. So, naturally, the biggest damn story of the year broke. Dad blast it, just my luck.”
“You never choose romance over a great picture. This must be serious. Did he propose?”
“Only about two hundred times. But I’m still waiting for the other boot to drop. If I hadn’t lived through all this before, I’d be trousseau-shopping right now. Can’t believe the Kiss-Me Killer nailed ol’ Sonny. Musta been like the last ten minutes of a bad horror flick. Lordy, if it didn’t have her name on it, the lista suspects’d be so long they’d never figure it out. Who didn’t want to kill Sonny?”
Cars packed the circular driveway. The house was crowded, with people speaking both English and Spanish. I didn’t expect the widow to be receiving the press, given the circumstances. I was wrong.
Pale and wan, clutching a damp handkerchief, her bewildered and photogenic children clustered around her, Lourdes Saladrigas continued to do what she had done for years. She campaigned for Sonny.
“He was a wonderful husband and father and he loved this city and its people,” she said tearfully, seated on a sofa, wearing a simple black dress and holding her children close, the youngest on her lap. I shuddered slightly, remembering the last time I had seen their innocent faces, in the photos at the crime scene.
The little one squirmed. So did I, along with other reporters, at the widow’s version of events.
“Sonny never met a stranger.” She smiled sadly. “He was always so generous, so quick to help anybody in trouble. He could never turn away from anyone in need.”
Waymon Andrews from WTOP-TV caught my eye and lifted a brow. The Sonny we knew was always so quick to pick a pocket, pocket a bribe, or pick up a hooker.
“He was set up,” the widow said, “by people who knew what an easy mark he would be.”
“How do you think he was set up?” Andrews feigned interest and perplexed concern.
“Sonny could never pass by an accident scene…”
True, the Bar Association had censured him twice for pressing his business cards on the survivors of crash victims while bodies were still trapped in the wreckage.
“…or a stranded motorist without stopping to help.”
Only, I thought, if she was young and pretty.
“If it is this…person they suspect,” the widow said, repositioning little Yvette, determinedly trying to wriggle off her lap, “they say her MO may be to fake car trouble. Then she murders any good Samaritan who offers help. Sonny must have stopped to assist a woman driver stranded in the dark, helped her find a motel room, and was seeing her safely to her door when…” Her dark eyes brimmed and she paused, lips trembling, to stroke her toddler’s hair.
“So you’re saying this might have been a conspiracy? That Sonny was specifically targeted and not a random victim?” I asked.
“Definitely. His political enemies would do anything to stop Sonny. Anything.” She nodded, voice barely audible. “Some are even in the press. They know who they are.” Her moist eyes roved the room. “I gave the detectives their names. The police promised to do everything they can.�
��
I wanted to ask how Sonny’s enemies managed to find the most hunted and homicidal woman in the state and convince her to target him, but the widow had no more to say. Handing the children over to a relative, she opened her arms to new arrivals at the door. Sobs resounded as an older woman fell weeping into her embrace.
“She talking about the same Sonny Saladrigas we all knew?” Waymon Andrews asked, as we walked down the gravel driveway to our cars.
“I guess she loved him,” I said. “Is it loyalty or did she really believe all that? How could she live with the man and not see what he was?”
“Love is blind,” Lottie said, suddenly glum. “Could be she just wants her kids to grow up loving their daddy and believin’ that’s what really happened.”
“I bet it’s her platform,” Andrews said cynically. “You know, good Samaritan’s widow appointed to serve out his term. If she doesn’t get the appointment and they decide to hold an election to fill his slot, I betcha she runs for it.”
“No way,” I said. “She’s got those little kids to raise without a dad…”
I drove home. Mrs. Goldstein, bless her, had fed the animals, walked Bitsy, and left a department store catalog with a note suggesting I register for china and silver patterns.
McDonald had left two messages on my machine. I’d call him from the office. I showered, put on fresh clothes, brewed myself some strong Cuban coffee, and went back to work. I stopped at La Estrella on the way. The same waitress studied me suspiciously.
“I said I’d be back,” I chirped brightly.
She said nothing, solemnly taking my order of more Cuban coffee to go; an Elena Ruiz, a turkey sandwich with cream cheese and raspberry jam; guava and meat pastelitos; and a double order of maquiritas. I needed energy. Hell might break loose at any moment. Time was running out for the killer. Nobody can run forever. Soon she would be cornered, caught or killed. I hoped it would be before lack of sleep overtook me. Chewing would keep me awake. I added a side of ham croquetas to my take-out order, paid the check, and stepped out onto the steamy sidewalk. The downpour had failed to cool the city. The temperature was an enervating 97 degrees and still climbing.
“Hell of a story this morning, Britt.” Ryan watched me place the food containers atop the two-drawer file cabinet beside my desk and sniffed appreciatively. “You brought lunch for everybody?”
“Touch any of this and I’ll chew off your fingers,” I warned, brushing aside messages from Althea. Not now, I thought. Doesn’t the woman know I’m busy? Doesn’t she read the newspaper?
Fred Douglas, the news editor, paused at my desk. “Nice work, Britt. How the hell did ya manage to get the jump on everybody? One of your police sources call you?”
“I was hungry,” I said. “Long story…”
“Well, we beat ’em bad.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “But that was yesterday. Keep it up. We want to stay ahead of the pack.”
I nibbled my sandwich with scant appetite. The story was what I hungered for. For the early edition, delivered to racks and convenience stores by 7 P.M., I focused on the widow’s comments, the massive manhunt, and the growing reward. Funeral arrangements went into a sidebar with eulogies for Sonny and expressions of shock from politicians all over the state.
The task-force detectives had hit town to work with the locals, but I couldn’t find them. I did find the Jolly Roger desk clerk, whisked away by the police that morning. Henry Mead was back on the job.
Thin, stoop-shouldered, in his forties, he wore stubble on his weak chin and looked as if he hadn’t slept or changed clothes. He knew who Sonny was when he had checked in using a name not his own. He had been there before. He signed the name of a former prosecutor who had tried to nail him in a corruption case. Sonny must have thought it funny to use the prosecutor’s name at a hot-pillow joint. This time the joke was on him.
Sonny only wanted the room for an hour or two. So when Henry Mead, the desk clerk, saw that the commissioner’s Mercedes had left the parking lot, he climbed the stairs to change the sheets and found the body.
“Changed my life,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m giving notice, getting myself into some other line of work.” He assumed Sonny had picked his companion from the herd of hookers who stmt the Boulevard. He had sneaked a look out his office window as they went up to the room but didn’t recognize her. She wore very high heels, a short tight skirt, and had skipped energetically up the stairs. Nice legs, he said, but he never actually saw her face. On the security tape, which he had viewed with detectives, she was little more than a grainy silhouette, face turned away, to the dark. But he heard her laughter. It sounded free and easy, like she was having fun, a good time, he remembered thinking.
“I’m getting out.” He shoved back his stringy too-long hair. “Going on home to Iowa. This town is no place for a God-fearing family man.”
“You have a family?” I asked.
“No, but I’m thinking ’bout getting me one.”
“But you are God-fearing.”
“I am now.”
Ojeda and Simmons were out in the field. I kept missing the task-force detectives, at city homicide, their hotel, the morgue. Where the hell were they?
Back at the office, Barbara, the city hall reporter, said the commissioners had met and were leaning toward appointing someone to serve out Sonny’s term. Several names had been mentioned.
“Tell me one of them is not Lourdes Saladrigas,” I said, massaging the back of my neck which had begun to cramp.
“How did you know?” she asked.
I snacked, drank more coffee, and checked my messages before settling down to write for the final. They were from Althea, my mother, Charlie Webster, and the usual faithful readers, weirdos, and anonymous callers reacting to Sonny’s death. One of the latter had left a terse message: Dead lawyers don’t suck. And another from McDonald. Damn, I had forgotten to call him. I swallowed the last of the guava pastry and reached for the phone. It rang first.
“Dead lawyers don’t suck.”
“I got the message.” I hunched my shoulders, rolled my head around, and listened to the bones in my neck crunch. “Who is this?”
I needed sleep or more food. I reached over to rattle the bags from La Estrella and see what was left.
“A reader, pissed off as hell.” The husky, whiskey-throated voice had an accent so southern that hell had two syllables.
“What about?” The last ham croqueta felt cold and greasy, so I dropped it in the wastepaper can. What could I lead with for the final?
“You. You’re Britt Montero. You wrote those stories about the murder, right?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, you can’t believe anythin’ you read in the paper. Don’t you people ever check anythin’ out?”
“I’m on deadline right now,” I said frostily. “Why don’t you write a letter to the editor?”
“Well, la-di-da. Too damn busy to discuss how you write all this inaccurate bullshit, huh? That man went right straight to hell where he belongs, and you’re probably fixin’ to write another story makin’ ’im sound like a goddamn saint. You can’t shine shit! Good husband? Wonderful father? Dedicated public servant? Bullshit.”
“Those were not my words,” I told her. “I never said that; those were accurate quotes from people who did. I’m only the messenger. Commissioner Saladrigas was a controversial figure,” I conceded, “and he certainly had his share of problems. But it’s only natural for people to speak well of the dead.” I silently cursed the editors who insisted we tread lightly when it came to his character in the initial story. “I’m sure you’ll see that future coverage is more balanced.”
For the final, I vowed to get in his indictments, his trials and tribulations, maybe even his recent skirmish with the hotel car jockey. Maybe I’d call the valet for a quote.
“A lot of people disliked him,” I added.
“Damn right. That Sonny was a pig—smellin’ up the whole room with that da
mn rotten stinkin’ cigar. Why the hell didn’t he stay home with his precious wife and kids?”
I swallowed a mouthful of coffee. It tasted muddy, not even lukewarm. “His wife is left with three small girls to raise,” I said wearily. “What would you…”
I paused.
“How did you know about the cigar?” Was that in the paper? No. Or was it? I reached for a copy of my original story and knocked over my Styrofoam coffee cup. The murky dregs splashed across my desk and notes as I rolled my chair back to avoid the spill.
“How d’ya think?” Her seductive voice hinted of dark secrets. “I was there.”
My stomach churned as I snatched some paper napkins to mop up. “When? When were you there?”
“You figure it out.”
I scanned the newsroom. Was another reporter playing games?
“Oh shit,” I whispered.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded.
“I spilled my coffee.”
She laughed. “Gotcha going, huh?” She laughed again, free and easy, like somebody having fun. “You’ve got a nice voice,” she said. “Kinda sexy, younger than I expected.”
“Look,” I snapped. “I don’t have time to play games. I’m on deadline here, and I’m tired.”
“Been busy, huh? Me too.”
“Who is this?”
“Who do you think, genius?”
“Are you saying you know something about the case?”
“Sure do,” she teased.
“What?”
“Everythin’.”
“Listen.” I exhaled, eyes focused on the big clock overhead. “We get a lot of crank calls; what makes you think I’d believe—”
“He’d already popped one-a them little blue pills ’fore we got there,” she said, interrupting. “Then he comes on real pushy cuz he took it and is horny as a toad. Smellin’ up the room with that stinkin’ cigar.”
“You’ve got my attention,” I said quietly.
“They tell you what I did with it?” The question sounded like a smirk.
“I heard.” My eyes darted wildly around the newsroom for somebody to signal. That made no sense. What could anybody do? Quietly, I slid my desk drawer open to look for my tape recorder. Not there. Where did I have it last?
Garden of Evil Page 10