Garden of Evil

by Edna Buchanan

  “She won’t have time to notice any big difference. Now, if civilians who might be endangered are present, our people might wait until it’s safe or until you exit together. That’ll be our judgment call. But if that happens, we take her down before you approach your car, her car, whatever. Be assured, you will never be out of our sight.”

  I nodded. “Okay, but remember, the detectives talk to me exclusively, referring the rest of the media to PIO until morning.” That was their sole concession, that others in the press would receive only a brief release while we had all the color and details.

  They went over and over every last item, to the point of tedium. Using a laser pointer and a map of the neighborhood, the lieutenant indicated the positions of the SWAT van, the mobile command post, and a vacant lot where the bird could land if necessary. Lottie would ride with the SWAT commander to shoot the capture. I would wear a body bug to record any possible admissions the killer might make to me. A global positioning device would be installed so my car could be tracked by computer. Nothing was left to chance. Another uniform entered the room almost unnoticed and listened from the back. I did a double take: McDonald.

  Tall, long-legged…guapismo! I caught my breath and wanted to go to him, touch his face, hold him. This was our time. The place was all wrong. Our glances caught. He did not smile.

  “I’m aware I’m in the minority,” he said, when the captain called for comments. “But as you already know, I don’t like it.”

  “Your objections are noted,” the commander said.

  I greeted him as the meeting broke, trying not to be conspicuous. “Didn’t know you were in town,” I said.

  “Just rolled in a short time ago,” he said. “See you in my office?”

  I sat on a hard wooden chair in front of his desk. The familiar smell of his soap and shaving lotion left me lightheaded. He leaned forward, speaking softly. “Don’t do this, Britt. It’s too risky. It’s not worth it.”

  “I didn’t know you were back.”

  “I came in early, to surprise you.”

  “I didn’t mention this to you, because it was uncertain and I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t think it would really happen.”

  “It is happening. No story is worth dying over.”

  I leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs, and wished I was wearing something more glam than old blue jeans. “You have no idea what Miami has been like with her here. The Beach is in an uproar. The whole mess with Sonny has turned the city upside down. The prosecutor’s office is subpoenaing the mayor’s funeral-parlor tape—”

  “I tried to call you.” His eyes said more than his words.

  “It was hectic. I left the office in a hurry. I’m sorry. Look, it’s going down in broad daylight with every piece of hardware and backup the department can muster. The chief guaranteed my bosses that every precaution is being taken—and believe it or not, the killer likes me. She’s never harmed a woman.”

  “We don’t know that,” he said, his hands on the desk in front of him.

  “Evidently, she hates men. Probably for good reason,” I said, hoping to lighten up the conversation. “You know I can handle myself,” I said persuasively. “Your chief and my editors agreed.”

  “They’re fools. She’s homicidal, a totally unknown quantity. Your editors and the chief don’t feel the way I do.”

  I knew the longing in his silvery blue eyes was mirrored in my own.

  “I can’t tell you how many operations we’ve had, where every possible precaution was taken,” he said, “and things went terribly wrong. These operations, no matter how well planned, can turn to shit in a heartbeat. You know that. Hell, you’ve written about some of them. There’s always that unpredictable human factor. And she has nothing to lose.”

  I shifted impatiently in my chair. “She targets men, not women. She relates to me. Wants me to write her story.” Why couldn’t we talk about what was really important? I wondered. Us.

  “Even if that’s all true, and we don’t know for a fact that it is, she’s more unpredictable than most serial killers. The men have been studied up, down, and inside out, giving us lots of resource material. But this female is rare, we don’t know enough—”

  “Which is why we need to find out. Shrinks are lining up to pick her brain. I’m as eager as they are. How many reporters ever get this sort of chance? And it’s the right thing. Even the chief said there’s nothing more they can do until she makes a mistake. How many more victims will die?”

  “Leave it to us, Britt. We’ll send in a professional. I don’t want you involved.”

  Why was he being so difficult? Was it my safety he was concerned about, or his ego, because I didn’t tell him?

  “If you had the opportunity to bring in this killer, or any other notorious fugitive,” I said, “and you were the only one who could do it, would you pass on it because I said it was too risky, that something might go wrong? No way.”

  His head snapped back, as though he’d been slapped. “That makes no sense, Britt. That’s my job, what I’m trained to do. You’re comparing apples and oranges. This is dead serious.”

  “Oh.” My voice sounded stone cold. “And my chance at a once-in-a-lifetime story is not?”

  He paused, studying my face intently. “For weeks,” he said slowly, “I’ve wanted to be close to you.”

  I thought of the champagne and how long I had waited for those words. “Tonight,” I said, yearning to reach out to him. “Later. After deadline.” Why did fate and timing always conspire against us?

  “I can’t dictate what you do,” he said. “I can only ask.” He watched me.

  “We would have been together already,” I said, “but you stayed longer in Washington because it was important to your career. Well, what about mine? Is this how it will be, yours always more important than mine?”

  I knew at once I had gone too far. I had seen this look in his eyes before, when he found me in the chaos after the hurricane—with someone else. The rival this time was a stranger.

  “I can’t stop you.” He rolled his chair back abruptly, as if to distance himself from me.

  “I’m glad you’re back. See you later?” My words sounded as shaky and as uncertain as I felt. I thought of the lacy lavender nightgown.

  He blinked, then shrugged.

  Sudden panic seized me as I stood up to leave. Can I live without him? I wondered. Will I have to?

  “For God’s sake, Britt, be careful,” he said, as I reached for the door.

  “Sure,” I said, almost flippantly. “You too.”

  For a moment outside his office, I hesitated, bewildered. Where was the intimacy we had shared long-distance for weeks? What was I doing? I turned to go back, but Ojeda and Simmons hailed me from across the detective bureau, their faces expectant.

  “Britt, it’s getting late! We gotta get it together!” They were eager to test the body bug and needed my car keys in order to plant the tracking device. There was no time to dwell on personal matters. I had an important assignment, the most important of my career.

  Detective Marcia Anders and Sally, a chubby-faced technician from the Special Investigations Section, wired me for sound, securing a beeper-sized unit to the small of my back with medical tape.

  “This is a lot easier,” Sally said cheerfully, “than taping guys with hairy backs. You should hear ’em scream when it comes off.”

  The wire, held in place by tiny strips of tape, ran up the back of my neck, hidden by my hair, around, and down into my bra, where a clip like those worn by TV anchors held the mike between my breasts.

  The receiver, built into a slim aluminum briefcase, would be with the detectives in the primary car, an off-white Isuzu Rodeo, trailing me as I drove to Michelangelo’s Garden. They also placed a voice-activated tape recorder under my car seat. The global positioning unit concealed in the trunk would transmit my car’s location in approximate street addresses to a portable computer screen.

  Instead of the consp
icuous SWAT trailer, a smaller cargo van disguised as a delivery truck would be parked in a lot behind Michelangelo’s. Ojeda and Simmons would be with the brass, supervising from a staff car concealed on a nearby side street. A jet ranger helicopter, borrowed from the sheriff’s department, would be airborne. Miami police lost their air support to budget cuts when the city went bust. All the technological apparatus seemed like overkill to me, but, as Lottie said, big boys love toys.

  The Rodeo and two other unmarked cars, each with two detectives, one driving, the other concealed in back with a shotgun, would escort me through traffic. Two would leapfrog behind me, frequently passing each other, pulling up and falling back. The lead car would range blocks ahead.

  My face looked pale in the mirror during my third visit to the rest room. Too much coffee, too much waiting. I was eager to see her, to look into her eyes just once while she was still free, before her features became the expressionless mask worn by humans in captivity. The drive would normally take fifteen minutes. Allowing for rush hour, they gave it thirty-five.

  McDonald and I exchanged glances but had no chance to speak again. He would be with the others at the command post. Ojeda jabbed a fist gently at my shoulder before leaving with the brass.

  “Break a leg, kid. Just stay cool and remember the rules. No screwups. See ya later.”

  The sky was broad and blue, the sun relentless, and the pavement scorching as I drove south on Interstate 95. I could see the Isuzu Rodeo in the rearview mirror—its stubby little black antenna tuned in to me—riding high in traffic four or five cars behind me. A middle-aged detective named Boggs was driving; a younger one, named Rodriguez, rode shotgun. I felt as secure as the president, surrounded by Secret Service.

  “Look at the traffic,” I said aloud, aware they could hear me. “We’re lucky it’s not raining.” The heavy stream moved smoothly. I stayed at the speed limit and watched passing motorists. What would they think if they knew where I was going and why? I thought of Althea for some reason. In all the excitement I had forgotten to ask the cops about the drive-by. What would my mother think of this? Would she be proud, or would she redouble her efforts to talk me into some other line of work? What was McDonald thinking right now?

  I squinted into the sun on the approach to the SW 16th Avenue exit, where traffic swooped down off the interstate onto South Dixie Highway. Even with sunglasses the glare was brutal. Would the killer try to scratch my eyes out when she saw the cops? I was to step away quickly when they made their move. Humph, I thought, if they had their way, I’d have no chance to speak to her at all.

  I hoped for the scenario the lieutenant had mentioned, a delay due to innocent bystanders. That would give us time to talk before the inevitable. I had so many questions. How did life lead her here? Was she remorseful? Was it men she hated? Or sex?

  Merging into the far right lane, I slowed and signaled for the exit. Once off the interstate, past Vizcaya, Michelangelo’s would be seven traffic lights ahead. The place was well-known for its policy of buy one slice, get one free. Tomorrow it would be famous for something else.

  My lane of traffic inched toward the exit ramp. I braked as a shiny red Mitsubishi Mirage with a blaring stereo suddenly cut in front of me. “You jerk!” I muttered at the driver. Then he braked as another motorist, a cute teenager in a blue Camaro, cut in front of him. What is this? I thought impatiently. I’m on a mission here!

  Butterflies swarmed through my intestinal tract and I wished I’d visited the rest room one more time. The problem was not the task ahead, it was the damn waiting, the blinding sun, the slow-moving traffic.

  “How do you guys deal with this?” I asked the microphone in my bra. “You get all psyched up for action, then sit in traffic. This part is so boring. I hate rush hour.”

  I checked the rearview. The surveillance car, the Isuzu Rodeo, was seven or eight vehicles behind mine in the bumper-to-bumper crawl. The other, a Ford Explorer, was so far back I didn’t see it. The ramp, a single-lane bottleneck at the exit, would broaden into two lanes on the descent.

  The red Mirage in front of me literally vibrated with the sounds of rap music. The driver looked like a gang-banger: young, with big shades, a baseball cap worn backward, and the mother of all stereo systems. Did he open his car windows in this weather to bombard us all with his taste in music? Or were the windows closed? Was the volume so high we could hear it anyway? Were his eardrums still intact? What happened to the city ordinance against noise pollution?

  He played drums, his hands slapped the steering wheel, his head jerked to the beat, as I inched down the ramp behind him. The girl in front of him suddenly slammed on her brakes, and the vibrating Mirage rear-ended her Camaro with a loud bam! “Damn,” I said aloud, hitting my own brakes in time. A bumper thumper.

  Those of us behind them sat at a standstill in the heat, rush hour building all around us. The girl, out of her car now, wore a fast food uniform. Must be on her way to work, I thought. She checked for damage. I couldn’t see from my vantage point, but at that slow speed it couldn’t be bad. He got out and joined her, leaving the music blasting. Christ, I thought, what if I’m late? I gave the surveillance car in the rearview an exaggerated shrug, as if they could see me from there.

  Neither of those two drivers should have a license. I fumed. This was Miami, they probably didn’t. Their heads were together now. He took a quick step back, apparently irked at something she said, and began to gesture. He stalked back to his car and opened the door, releasing more throbbing bass into the superheated atmosphere. She said something else. He stalked back and appeared to be intimidating her. The son of a bitch was twice her size. I didn’t like the looks of this. A cacophony of car horns sounded behind me as the drivers exchanged angry words. She walked past his car, ponytail bouncing, as though in search of something. He followed, red in the face, shouting words I couldn’t hear. His car still vibrated. The least he could do, I thought, is turn down the volume.

  She approached my T-Bird, a flowered straw purse swinging from her shoulder, and motioned for me to roll down my window.

  “Do you have a cell phone? I have to call for help.” She rolled pitifully worried eyes back at the angry gang-banger, who was bellowing something just two steps behind her.

  “Sure,” I said. “Want me to call the cops?”

  “Think you should?” she said timidly, near tears. “I was just gonna call my boyfriend. It’s his car. He’s gonna kill me.”

  “Okay, but make it fast, you’ve gotta move the cars.” She smiled gratefully as I handed her my phone. Somebody behind me leaned nonstop on their horn, adding to the earsplitting din. I sighed impatiently as she placed the phone on my car roof and reached into her straw bag to find the number. Instead, in a split second that seemed like slow motion, she drew out a gun, swung it over her shoulder, and shot the hulking gang-banger square in the face. Blood flew as he was hurled back. I heard the screams of other motorists as he crumpled to the pavement, a messy hole just above the bridge of his nose. The gunshot and the music resounded up and down the concrete barriers of the ramp.

  Her eyes so wide I saw the whites, she wrenched open my car door. “Move over!” She swung the gun at my head. The still smoking barrel looked huge. “Move over, damn it!” She shoved her way into the car without waiting for me to obey. At the last moment, she turned, aimed, and fired another shot at the young man, whose body still jerked on the scorching pavement. A middle-aged motorist, half out of his car, ducked back inside and slammed the door. As I scrambled for the passenger-side door, the gun was back on me.

  “Don’t you move, Britt!” she shrieked. “I’ll cap you! I’ll cap you right now!”

  How does she know my name? I wondered stupidly. Then I knew who she was. The detectives, I thought; they must have heard the shot.

  She turned the wheel hard and hit the gas as I looked back. Boggs, a gun in one hand, his radio in the other, and Rodriguez, with the shotgun, were charging down the ramp on foot.

&nbs
p; Terrified motorists trapped in traffic were screaming, ducking, hitting other cars in escape attempts. They had to think they’d been caught in a gang war.

  She threw it in reverse and slammed into the front bumper of the car a few feet behind me. My cell phone flew off the roof as she wheeled around the red Mirage and ran over something: the man she shot. My T-Bird dragged him until she cut the wheel again and swerved past the Camaro. The driver’s-side door scraped noisily along the concrete barrier as she floored it.

  “My car!” I gasped. “I don’t let anybody else drive it.”

  “Well, excuse me.”

  Behind us, Boggs stood shouting into his radio. In front of us, the squeegee men working the ramp scattered, fleeing for their lives. Rodriguez was still running, despite the growing distance between us.

  “He won’t shoot,” she panted, grinning. “Too many people around, includin’ you. Wouldn’t worry if he did, most cops can’t shoot worth shit…

  “Hah! Look at that!” she yelped gleefully. “See that? The stupid son of a bitch with the shotgun tried to take over somebody’s car and they peeled out to git away from ’im. Aw right!”

  Hunched forward, peering over her shoulder like a racecar driver, she gunned my T-Bird into the emergency lane, rocketing by other traffic.

  “Wasn’t that good shootin’? Damn, I’m good! You best remember that, girl!”

  “Wish you hadn’t shot him,” I mourned. “You ran over him, too. Think he’s dead?”

  “Most likely. That’s life. You can be fine, fine, fine, then—boom! You’re dead!” She shrugged her slim shoulders philosophically. “Didja hear that music?” Her pert nose wrinkled in disgust.

  I saw now that she was no teenager. But she was young and sweet-faced, with a dimpled chin and engaging grin. Somebody you would smile back at in a mall. Her cuteness wore off fast. I took a deep breath and tried not to be sick as the car lurched and swerved. I didn’t see the Rodeo or the Blazer behind us, but they would overtake us any second now. She would have to surrender when surrounded, I told myself.