Garden of Evil

by Edna Buchanan

  “You think it’s her?” I asked.

  “That’s what they say,” she said breezily. “That’s the address.”

  The detectives cursed and Ojeda snatched the address from my hand. South Beach, a dozen blocks south of the last murder scene, not far from where Gianni Versace took his final morning stroll.

  “We asked them to notify us of any development at once,” Ojeda muttered, slamming a fist into his palm.

  “Guess they forgot.” Gretchen shook her shiny blonde mane and strutted smartly back to the city desk.

  He was Carlos Triana, a model.

  He had failed to appear for a catalog shoot when the early morning light was just right on the Boardwalk. The furious photographer notified Triana’s agency. Someone was sent to the model’s subleased condo. No answer at the door. Triana’s Mazda was missing from his parking space. Then the young agency assistant recognized Karp’s Jaguar in visitor parking. The sedan had been on TV; everybody was looking for it. He called his boss, who called police.

  Neighbors had complained in the past about loud parties in the second-floor condo apartment. This time the sounds of doors slammed in the wee hours had actually been gunshots.

  His live-in fiancée, a psychology major at the University of Miami, was away, visiting her family in New York.

  Tall, athletic, and handsome, Triana worked hard, played hard, and had it all. He was twenty-seven.

  I joined the rest of the press amid the crowd gathered outside the yellow crime scene tape. Ojeda ducked beneath the tape to talk to Beach detectives while Simmons hung out close to me, in case the call came.

  The South Beach crowd differed from the gawkers at most murder scenes. Kids on summer vacation mingled with curious senior citizens wearing little umbrella hats and plastic nose protectors against the brutal sun. Promoters and entrepreneurs complained bitterly to reporters and each other about what a blow this was to business. Triana’s agent, Melinda Mowrey, worked the press, helpfully distributing her cards and copies of her late client’s modeling composite. Impressive. Clad in tennis whites and brandishing a tennis racket, he flashed a blinding Pepsodent smile. The man had been a hunk.

  He was a regular on the Beach nightlife scene that had blossomed after the modeling agencies moved in, attracting beautiful women and the players who orbit around them.

  Fiercely competitive clubs, bars, and discos all crowded into a small district battled soaring rents, parking nightmares, and each other for survival. Independent promoters hired to make places happen dreamed up innovative specialty-night party themes, papered the city with posters, and packed as many as two thousand hot bodies a night into certain clubs. Like head hunters, the promoters were paid a percentage of the night’s take for delivering high body counts.

  The Kiss-Me Killer had just single-handedly changed the meaning of the term.

  Karp’s death had sent shudders through the beautiful creatures of the night. Now this. Murder is a turnoff, sudden death a bummer.

  Triana was definitely a hot body. He had entertained his killer in his hot tub. That’s where he was found. As a parting gesture, she had turned up the temperature. Way up. His groin wound had severed an artery and he bled out, the contents of the tub cooking into a very nasty soup.

  “Be glad we ain’t working that scene,” Ojeda told Simmons back at the paper. “Be very glad.”

  Why hadn’t she called me as with Karp? The detectives feared she was gone. I feared she was talking to someone else, another reporter about to break the story.

  “She’s killing the clubs,” promoter Ziggy Solomon complained on the TV news at six.

  This body count meant no business, no crowds, no big bucks. The promoters, business owners, and managers were demanding that the city, the Chamber of Commerce, the Tourist Development Commission, and the cops take immediate action to make the city safe once more for rampant decadence.

  Most commissioners had fled the steamy city for the summer, but the mayor called an emergency session of his advisory committee for the following morning.

  Beach clubs were subdued that night, the streets deserted. The desk assigned Howie Janowitz to do a piece on it. Normally I would have wanted that too, would have wanted to do it all, but I was exhausted. So were the detectives. On the way home, I cruised Ocean Drive, the detectives trailing in their unmarked. The neon-filled night was hot, but there was no breeze off the sea and no action. Business was dead, the outdoor cafes empty, chairs stacked.

  A small Beach weekly hit newsstands next morning with the headline: HARD-PARTYING ANGEL OF DEATH, KILLS SOBE CLUBS.

  Tex bombarded the photo department with yellow roses, accompanied by cards threatening to leave Miami forever if Lottie continued to ignore him, which she did. Kendall McDonald was already on the road home—and nothing.

  I had been right not to tell him, I thought. We replayed her last call over and over, trying to figure out why she changed her mind. She had sounded so certain. Dr. Schlatter advised not to give up hope.

  I did a brief phone interview with Triana’s hysterical fiancée, Stephanie, about to fly home to a terrible truth and a very messy apartment.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God,” she repeated. “It can’t be true, he can’t be dead.” He had lived a swinger’s lifestyle before her, but that had all changed, she said. They were settling down. He would not invite another woman into their home. They had talked at seven the night he died. He had been elated because of a second call-back audition for a national margarine commercial. He was sure he would land it. He had wished she were there so they could celebrate.

  He must have decided to celebrate without her.

  Ojeda was in the men’s room and Simmons dozing in a desk chair when my phone rang again.

  “¿Como está?” she said, in a bad accent. “Sorry I haven’t touched base lately.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  I pressed the button, gesturing frantically at Simmons, whose eyes were nearly closed. He snapped awake, donning the earphones to the extension they had set up.

  “I thought you forgot about me,” I said. The hair prickled on the back of my neck.

  “Would I do that, girlfriend? You been on my mind all the time.” She sounded serene, relaxed. “Just took a day off to wind down, get a little rest. Nothin’ like a good soak in a hot tub. Feelin’ much better now, I tell ya.”

  Ojeda was back, scrambling for his earphones.

  “I was surprised to hear about you and that model, Carlos. You didn’t call. I was the last to know.”

  “Awww, did I make ya jealous, girlfriend? Thought you were sharp. Guess I shoulda called. Hate to see you git scooped by other reporters. Us working girls need all the help we can git.”

  “Weren’t you scared? That guy was in great shape, had a black belt in karate.”

  “Scared?” She repeated it as if it were a new word. “Fear,” she said, “is like water. You need it. And it’s good for you, as long as you have the right amount.”

  “What about our interview?”

  “I’m callin’ you, ain’t I? Somethin’ you’re gonna have to understand ’bout me, Britt, if we’re gonna get along. When I give my word, I live up to it, unlike some people.” She chuckled. “Unless I change my mind, a-course…

  “My main concern,” she said, her tone becoming more businesslike, “is that a nonbiased individual, like yourself, hears my story and tells it right, as purely as I can refine it from opinion to a true and solid perspective. A-course, over a period of time, I expect we can talk about the significance of everythin’ I tell you. Perhaps somethin’ can come of it, somethin’ significant.”

  Her little speech sounded oddly rehearsed.

  I stole a look at Ojeda, who was nodding in mock agreement, lifting his thick eyebrows.

  “That’s exactly what I’m hoping for,” I said, thinking of McDonald on the road, pushing for home. “When do we start?”

  “You sound like a lady in a hurry,” she said lightly. “How ’bout this af
ternoon?”

  My body quaked, as though doused by icewater. This was what I wanted, what I was living for. Wasn’t it?

  “Sure,” I said. “Sounds great.”

  Ojeda gestured, a slow-down-let’s-take-our-time signal.

  “Let’s see.” She pondered, as though consulting a timepiece. “It’s eleven thirty now. Hm. Know where Michelangelo’s Garden is?”

  Ojeda’s hand wobbled in an I’m-not-sure signal.

  “I think so,” I answered slowly. “Where they make the good pizza?” Michelangelo’s Garden was a combination service station and pizzeria on South Dixie Highway.

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s the one.”

  “I’ve never been there, but I think I’ve passed it. Hear it’s pretty good.”

  “Not bad,” she said.

  “You get around, don’t you? Thought you spent most of your time on the Beach.”

  “I cover the waterfront,” she said. “I get bored easy. Never stay too long in one place, that’s my motto.”

  The tense cops in their earphones had caught the attention of the city desk. People had stopped work to watch. Somebody must have called Lottie. She appeared in the hall between the newsroom and photo, near the wire room, watching, poised like a deer, ready to bolt for her gear and her car. She would hang with the cops and shoot the arrest as it went down.

  “So,” I said. “We meet for pizza?”

  “I tell ya”—she sighed—“I’m not much for Eyetalian. Right now I could go for eggs over easy, with bacon and grits on the side. But tell you what.” She sounded almost eager. “I got to get my act together here. Let’s make it Michelangelo’s this afternoon, four o’clock sharp.”

  Ojeda nodded, big smile, thumbs up.

  “Okay, you’ve got it.”

  “Look casual,” she said. “Wear jeans. Don’t look like a reporter. Don’t wanna ’tract no attention.”

  “I’ll just carry a notebook in my purse and leave the laptop in the car?”

  “You got it. You’ll be driving your T-Bird, right?”

  “Yep. How will I know you?”

  “Well, I sure as hell ain’t gonna carry a sign. You just pull up in that T-Bird, I’ll find you. It’s white, right?”

  “Luminescent Pearl is the official color,” I said.

  “Okay, park as close to the front door as you kin get, but park legal for God’s sake, then come on in. I’ll be waitin’ at a table near the front. You git there first, you grab one. Shouldn’t be too crowded then. And Britt. I smell cop, and somebody’s gonna wind up hurtin’—bad.”

  “If you see a police car anywhere, just chill,” I said solemnly. “Because if you do, he’s not with me, he’s on routine patrol.”

  “Don’t tell anybody, I mean anybody, where you’re goin’.”

  “Okay. My editors know we plan to meet, but I’ll tell them when it’s over, when I get back.”

  “Good. See ya in a bit. Remember, I’m trustin’ you.”

  “You can count on me, like a rock.”

  As she hung up, Ojeda bowed his head, hands in a prayerful position, then hurtled jubilantly out of his chair and high-fived Simmons. “Okay! Okay! Right on, Britt!”

  Fred watched from the door of his glass office. Mark Seybold was with him. I gave them the thumbs-up.

  Ojeda was already on his radio reporting the location, confirming that all systems were go. Luckily, I had a pair of jeans in my locker. I changed into them, then called Mrs. Goldstein to ask her to feed and walk Bitsy and Billy Boots because I had to work late. I told Fred I’d be back by six o’clock, seven at the latest, to write for the final. There would be more reporting to do: checking out the killer’s identity and background, reactions from next of kin and other police agencies. I hoped McDonald got off to a late start. This would be a long night. I’d have to start reporting for the second-day story early in the morning. Then I would be free. We could be together. It could all work out.

  As we tore out of the newsroom, my phone rang. The detectives and I stared at each other, then I dashed back to catch it. Breathless, I answered.

  “Britt, thank God you’re there!”

  I winced. Why hadn’t I been faster out the door? “Althea, I’m running out right now on a really important story.”

  “They tried again! They tried to kill me!” Genuine terror shook her voice.

  I sank hopelessly into my chair, shaking my head at the detectives, who had started for the earphones.

  “What is it?” I said impatiently. “What happened now?”

  She hesitated, probably startled by my lack of sympathy. “I—I was walking into the beauty parlor. I had just stepped off the bus. My car isn’t running, something with the transmission. I haven’t found a buyer for the house yet, so I have to wait to get the car fixed. So I took the bus over to the beauty school downtown, the one where you get cut-rate haircuts from students in training. I hadn’t ridden a bus in years, if ever. Well, it was quite an experience. Some of the—”

  “Oh, God, Althea,” I said, my head dropping to my chest. “Could you please just get to the bottom line?”

  “As I walked into the beauty parlor, I dropped my magazine. As I bent to pick it up, I heard a sound….”

  Why me, I mourned, forehead in my hand. Would this woman ever get to the point? Ojeda and Simmons glared, gesturing at their watches, as jittery as thoroughbreds at the starting gate. Lottie was with them, carrying her equipment bag.

  “…I thought it was a car backfiring. I heard glass tinkling but thought nothing of it. Well, I walked in and thought I was all alone. It looked like the place was empty. Everybody was on the floor. The window was broken. The police said it was a drive-by. Britt, it never occurred to me that what I heard was gunfire. I never even saw the car, but I heard it speed up and turn the corner. They said the only reason I wasn’t killed was that the magazine slipped out of my hands—”

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “No.”

  “What did the police say?”

  “They don’t believe I was the target. Lieutenant Springer was out; I was unable to reach him. They took my name and the other case numbers and said they would check it out, but, Britt, I don’t think they will. They said it was teenage gangs shooting at each other. That there have been a number of drive-by shootings in that neighborhood. But I had just gotten off the bus—”

  “Oh, Althea, maybe you should believe them. Things happen.”

  “But Britt, they were shooting at me, I know it. They were!”

  “Did you talk to your family?”

  “My daughter?” she said uncertainly.

  “Yes. What does she say?”

  “That it’s my fault, that I shouldn’t have been in that area in the first place.”

  “She’s probably right.”

  “No!” Althea said abruptly. “Why won’t someone listen?” She paused, as though collecting her thoughts. “They say the first half of our lives is ruined by our parents and the second by our children; what about husbands? It’s Richard’s fault—I know he isn’t doing this, but I also know that none of it would be happening if he hadn’t left, if I wasn’t alone, if he hadn’t just walked…” She was on the verge of hysteria. I gazed beyond the newsroom out the picture windows at blue sky, swooping gulls, and shafts of light glinting off the mirror-bright face of the bay.

  “Althea, maybe being lucky three times is a sign. Maybe it’s over. In any case, I don’t have time to go into it with you again right now. I’m working on a really major story. I’ll talk to the cops about what happened if I get the chance, but really—” Ojeda frowned and called my name. “I’ve got to go.” I hung up before she could protest. I could listen to her later, after this was over.

  My phone rang again as we left. I didn’t look back.

  “That former Orange Bowl queen, the one whose husband dumped her, says somebody tried to kill her again today,” I explained on the elevator. “She was nearly caught in a drive-by downtown.”

  �
�She’s sure living the perils of Pauline,” Lottie drawled.

  “Ain’t we all,” Ojeda said.

  Lottie and I took our own cars, met the detectives in the lobby at headquarters, and were whisked to a war room I didn’t know existed, adjacent to the fifth-floor detective bureau.

  “We have an alternative,” the homicide lieutenant said in greeting. “A policewoman who resembles you from a distance can drive your car.”

  “No way!” I blurted. “I set it up, made the contact. If I can get one good quote from her before you guys drag her away in handcuffs, I want that chance.” Secretly, I hungered for more, but that was probably the best I could hope for.

  “We’re not in the business of catering to the newspaper’s desires,” the detective commander said coldly. “We don’t need your cooperation at this point. We can use any white T-Bird and do this without you.”

  “Sure. What if she knows what I look like? What if she knows my tag number? What if this is a test and she calls me at the Garden? Why take a chance on spoiling it now? Let’s just do it as planned. I’m the one she’s talked to; she knows my voice. We made a deal. I’ve had detectives in my living room—”

  “It’s your safety and the safety of the entire operation that we’re concerned about,” the commander said.

  “There’d be no operation if it wasn’t for me, and I’m following the plan to the letter,” I said.

  “Right. Under no circumstances do you get creative and start improvising,” the lieutenant warned. “You absolutely do not go anywhere or get into a vehicle with her. You’re covered from the moment you leave here, and we’re with you, even if you don’t see us. Should she approach you prematurely, before you enter, you push your hair back with your right hand, like this.” He demonstrated. “We move in the moment she identifies herself. Otherwise, you walk in, sit at a table close to the door, and order a Coke. When she approaches and identifies herself, you make the same hand signal. The cashier, the waitress, and most of the customers will be cops.”

  “But she’s been there and knows the place.”