Criminal Justice

by Parker, Barbara

  Dan noticed the clock on the microwave: 2:36. He had to concentrate to remember that it was A.M.

  The homicide detective was asking him how he had met the deceased. Dan told him that she had come to his office to ask advice about a traffic ticket. They had started dating. That had been six weeks ago, something like that.

  A card lay on the table. Jesus A. Gonzalez, Detective Sergeant, Homicide Division. Gonzalez looked fairly hip for a cop. He had thinning gray hair, longer in back, and a small diamond in his left earlobe. He found it interesting that Dan was a lawyer.

  “Eres cubano?”

  “No, my grandfather was Cuban. He came over in 1940. A fisherman.”

  “I see the fish tank in there. You collect fish? They’re pretty, those blue ones. What are they called?”

  “Neon gobys.”

  A second detective, a younger man, was leaning casually against the sink, arms crossed. A badge hung on the pocket of his sports coat.

  Gonzalez asked, “When did you split up with Miss Dorff?”

  “A couple of weeks ago, I guess.”

  “Why’d she come over tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her since we broke up.”

  “Was there any degree of rancor, let’s say, between you and Ms. Dorff?”

  “Rancor? No. She wasn’t happy that we broke up, but she didn’t hold a grudge. I got a call from her Saturday wishing me well, in fact.”

  “You just said you haven’t spoken to her.”

  “She left a message on the machine.”

  “I see. And you haven’t seen her since you broke up?”

  “No, I saw her at the studio a couple of days after that. This morning I took some things of hers to her. She’s staying—she was staying with Martha Cruz. I didn’t see her, but I heard her playing her guitar. They had rehearsal tonight. I don’t know what time they finished. Ask Martha.”

  “I will. Did Kelly have any enemies that you know of?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “It would be helpful,” Gonzalez said, “if you could give us the names of anybody who, you know, might want to do this young lady in. Could you help us with that?”

  “Sure.” Dan closed his eyes momentarily. Saw the speargun on the floor where he had dropped it. The nylon cord that went through Kelly’s body. The spear had a barbed steel point, and the police had pulled it out of the wall behind the aquarium.

  Gonzalez was saying, “Nobody broke in here tonight, did they? I’m thinking maybe the house was broken into, Miss Dorff comes along, sees the intruder—”

  Dan shook his head. “The doors were locked. I didn’t see any broken windows.”

  “Did she have a key?”

  “No. Oh, wait. I keep a spare key under the back steps for emergencies. She knew where it was. It’s possible she used it to get in.”

  Gonzalez looked at the other detective, who unfolded his arms and went outside to take a look. He said to Dan, “You want a glass of water? Mind if I have one?”

  “The glasses are over the sink.” Dan propped his forehead in his hand. He heard the refrigerator door open. The gurgle of water. Water had been ticking out of the aerator tubes, the last few drops. Kelly had bled to death. If Dan had arrived ten minutes earlier, he could have caught the son of a bitch. Around eleven o’clock the neighbor next door had heard a scream, then a crash. She had ignored it. Had gone back to her television.

  Adjusting the knee of his trousers, Gonzalez sat down again. “Where were you coming from when you got home?”

  “My former brother-in-law’s house in Pompano Beach. Rick Robbins.”

  “The manager for Kelly’s band. And you left his house when?”

  “Let’s see. Got there about nine-thirty, left around ten o’clock.”

  “And before that?”

  Dan blinked and rubbed his eyes. The kitchen seemed too bright. “I took my son home. He lives with his mother, my former wife, in Lakewood Village. That’s up in Broward County.”

  “I know where Lakewood is,” Gonzalez said. “Nice area. Your former wife is … Mr. Robbins’s sister? Do I have that right?”

  “Yes. Her name is Lisa Galindo. Do you want the address?”

  “I’ll get it from you later if I need it. And you left her house at what time?”

  “Around seven-thirty.” Dan glanced up. The other detective was coming in the back door.

  “No key,” he said, “but the M.E. found a loose house key in the pocket of her jeans.”

  Dan said, “I just remembered that when I came in the door knob was locked but the dead bolt was open. The same key fits both. Kelly would lock both of them when she’d come over.”

  The detective said, “So?”

  “So someone followed her in, then left by turning the thumb lock in the knob.”

  “Which proves what?”

  “I don’t know. She let someone in.”

  “We’ll get to that,” Gonzalez said. His tone told the younger man to butt out. He looked back at Dan. “Mind if I ask how long you’ve been divorced?”

  “Since last August.”

  “You and your ex get along okay?”

  “Fine. We’re trying to work things out. We might get back together.”

  Gonzalez nodded. “Good luck. I’m divorced too. Last year. My ex is always giving me shit about the women I date.” He laughed and propped his ankle on his knee. “I’m going with this young chick, right? My ex hits the ceiling, and I’m not even married to her anymore. Did your ex know Kelly?”

  “I think they met, probably through Rick.”

  “They got along all right?”

  “They met. They didn’t know each other,” Dan said impatiently. “Are we done? I’d like to take a shower.”

  “Almost.” Gonzalez glanced down at his notes. “What was the nature of your visit with Mr. Robbins?”

  “A legal matter. I’m his attorney.”

  “What was this about?”

  “I’m sorry, it’s confidential.”

  “I assume it had to do with the band. He’s the manager, correct?”

  “It’s confidential, Sergeant.”

  “Okay.” Gonzalez rolled his pen between his flattened palms. “Help me figure this out. You leave your ex-wife’s house at seven-thirty. You arrive at Mr. Robbins’s house in Pompano Beach, just north of Fort Lauderdale, at nine-thirty. That’s a half-hour trip, that time of night. I wonder if you can help me pinpoint exactly where you were during that extra hour and a half.”

  Dan remembered suddenly that he had been driving up and down the interstate, then around a warehouse district in North Miami, looking for Manatee Studios, trying to find the man with the beard. “It’s not relevant where I was at that time. Kelly died at eleven.”

  “Mr. Galindo, let me decide what’s relevant. I like all the squares filled in. I’m funny that way.”

  Dan felt the first rush of anger, fueled by awareness of his own stupidity. He’d walked right into this. A Miami homicide detective was interrogating him. Daniel Galindo was a suspect in a murder. Of course he was. The ex-boyfriend. Dan had told his clients again and again: Don’t talk to the police. Whatever you tell them, they’ll think the worst. Give your name, your address, and then call a lawyer.

  “Mr. Galindo?”

  But he was a lawyer. There would be reporters crawling all over this case at dawn, and the last thing he wanted to hear on the news was, Police say that Miami lawyer and former assistant U.S. attorney Daniel Galindo refuses to comment on the mysterious death of his former lover, rock singer Kelly Dorff, whose body was found last night in his apartment.

  Dan crossed his arms. “Between eight and nine o’clock I made another stop which had to do with Mr. Robbins—and which I am not prepared to discuss—and after that I drove to his house in Pompano Beach, arriving, as I said, about nine-thirty. I left around ten, arrived home, unlocked the door, came inside, and found Ms. Dorff dead in my living room.”

  “You arrived her
e at eleven.”

  “Eleven-oh-eight.”

  “And you didn’t see Kelly Dorff earlier tonight? Didn’t speak to her by phone?”

  “No.”

  “You came home and found her body.”

  “That’s what I just said. Eight minutes—more or less—after my neighbor heard a woman’s scream and the crash of my aquarium going over. Are we finished now?”

  “Bear with me. You leave the Robbins place around ten o’clock. Ms. Dorff is killed around eleven, you arrive at 11:08, according to you.”

  “According to the clock on the stereo,” Dan said.

  “Right. Pompano to Miami is … what? Thirty miles? And it took you an hour and eight minutes. On the interstate.” Gonzalez was waiting. “Can you explain that? Clear it up for me?”

  The underarms of Dan’s shirt were soaked, and he could feel sweat tickling down his spine. “Yes. I was at a friend’s house. I went by to discuss some business.”

  “You just now remembered this?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Who’s the friend? I’d like to call him—or her.”

  Dan shook his head. “I’ve answered enough questions. I’m going to make a phone call.”

  “Who are you calling?”

  “My lawyer.”

  “You need a lawyer? Come on. You?” Gonzalez put the notebook aside. “Listen. Wouldn’t it be simpler if you just told me what happened?”

  “I did.” Dan walked past him out of the kitchen and through the living room, not looking at the blood or the remains of his aquarium. Two officers in dark blue uniforms watched him. He could hear Gonzalez calling his name. In his bedroom, there was an answering machine built into the telephone. Dan noticed for the first time the green light that indicated two messages.

  Standing at the door, Gonzalez pointed. “Don’t touch that.” A uniformed officer walked over, not sure what was going on. Gonzalez came in and pressed the button with the end of his pen.

  A beep. Then Lisa’s voice, annoyed. “Dan? I hope you’re on your way. You said you’d have Joshua home by seven-thirty.”

  Silence. Another beep. Then Kelly’s husky voice.

  “Hi. It’s me. I saw you when you came to Miguel’s today. I should’ve come out, but I was scared to. Stupid, huh? Thanks for the clothes and stuff. And for the note. Dan, I need to talk to you tonight. We’ve got rehearsal, then I’ll come over. It’s important. Please don’t be busy. See ya.”

  Gonzalez hit the replay button. “Hi. It’s me.…”

  In his mind Dan saw Kelly’s narrow face, the thin lips. He could see her speaking, tossing her hair out of her eyes.

  “I’m going to take a wild guess and say that the first one is your ex. And the other one is Kelly Dorff.” With his handkerchief over his hand, Gonzalez opened the lid and took out the tape. “Your neighbor told me she recently heard some fighting in here. Yelling, screaming, profanity, some loud thumps. You saw her in the yard the next day, and she asked you about it. You apologized. Said it wouldn’t happen again because Ms. Dorff wasn’t coming back. You remember that?”

  “Get out. I have a call to make.”

  “We’re going to discuss this at the station.”

  “Not unless you place me under arrest, and you don’t have a warrant. You don’t even have probable cause to get a warrant.”

  Gonzalez smiled at him. “Based on what we have already, I don’t foresee a problem.”

  Dan kept his voice under control. “I can’t kick you out of a crime scene, but I’m going to call my lawyer. Then I’m leaving.”

  Charlie Dunavoy arrived fifteen minutes later, rumpled and gruff, telling the cops he wanted them out by noon and Dan’s keys returned to his office. Dan hung his suit bag in the back of the Cadillac.

  As they pulled out of the parking lot past the police cars and a crime-scene van, Dan could see Detective Gonzalez watching from the front porch.

  “Good God. Charlie, I talked to the bastard. I don’t believe it. I sat right there and answered his questions. I knew better and I still did it.”

  “Oh, we’ll get it all sorted out.” Charlie turned left toward Biscayne Boulevard. “Lawyers are the worst. We think we can explain it all away. We’re smart. And what will the Florida Bar say if we don’t offer an explanation? What will our clients say?”

  The boulevard was dark and quiet, only a few cars in either direction.

  “They think I killed her! It’s inconceivable. Why am I sweating like this?”

  “You’re sweating because you feel guilty. You feel guilty because we all do when somebody we care about suffers. It’s human nature. You’re thinking, Oh, if I hadn’t ended our affair, this wouldn’t have happened to her. Right? Yeah. Two-bit psychology.”

  “I should call Rick. He can’t hear about this on the news.”

  “We get to my place, we’ll talk about what to do.”

  “It’s late.”

  “I’m wide awake as a hooty owl myself. Alva’s up waiting for us. She said she’d put some coffee on.”

  “I’ll tell you everything I know, Charlie. It’s going to take awhile.”

  Kelly’s face appeared in Dan’s mind again, and he felt his throat tighten, then ache.

  CHAPTER 23

  The murder of Kelly Dorff sent a tremor through the Operation Manatee task force. The U.S. attorney’s office, the federal agencies involved, and local law enforcement assumed that someone had found out who she was: a confidential informant. Expecting that the targets of the investigation would start running for cover, the FBI wanted them arrested immediately. The DEA argued for a delay. When the targets continued in their normal routines, it was agreed that U.S. marshals would conduct their sweep as scheduled, after the DEA had arrested Miguel Salazar over the weekend.

  The initial meeting between Salazar and agent Vincent Hooper, posing as Victor Ramirez, had resulted in Salazar’s proposing another. He would meet Ramirez again on Sunday, this time to do business. Ramirez would bring $500,000 in cash; Salazar would deliver an equal amount in credits in a foreign bank, less his customary fee of ten percent. Salazar would handle the transaction in person. His usual courier, Leon Davila, had returned to Ecuador. At least that was the story. None of the contacts in Ecuador had seen him.

  With attention focused elsewhere, the investigation into Kelly Dorff’s murder had been left solely to the Miami police. Elaine McHale had read the newspapers. She knew that the police suspected Dan Galindo, assuming a quarrel between former lovers. She did not know who else might be on the list of suspects; nor did she know why Kelly had gone to see Dan that night. She was curious how the DEA had responded.

  DEA agent Scott Irwin appeared as a witness before the grand jury on Tuesday afternoon, one of the final sessions for Operation Manatee. Elaine decided to ask him.

  The grand jury—actually two dozen separate panels, meeting on various days—convened on the ninth floor of the federal building. The nondescript gray lobby was strewn with newspapers and empty coffee containers so late in the afternoon. Coming out of one of the jury rooms, Elaine saw Irwin chatting with undercover police officers, all of them wearing ties and dark sports coats. She had to look carefully to pick out Irwin, the one with curly dark blond hair. The wig looked real. His blue punk-rocker hair was completely out of sight.

  She nodded toward the other officers, then said, “Agent Irwin, I’d like to talk to you for a minute.” They went into a conference room off the lobby, a small one facing west.

  Elaine tilted the blinds, and stripes of light angled across the gray walls and carpet. Irwin said nothing. They were so good at this, she thought. The blank stare. Neither hostile nor friendly. Waiting but not anxious about it. She felt like she was looking at a screen saver on a computer monitor.

  She leaned on the edge of the table. “I want to find out what happened to Kelly Dorff. She and I talked on several occasions, and I got to know her. Whatever is in the Miami Herald is not, obviously, the whole story. I wonder if you coul
d fill me in.”

  Irwin said, “You should talk to the police.”

  “Yes, but here you are,” she said, “and I’d rather have the DEA’s view of it. Yours in particular. You were rehearsing with her in Martha’s studio at Salazar’s house the night she died.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And she left around ten o’clock?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  He took a small breath, as she had seen him do before answering a question for the grand jury. “We rehearsed until shortly before ten. Kelly had already mentioned meeting Dan Galindo that night. Martha Cruz didn’t want her to go. She was anxious to keep working. We were in the middle of a song when Kelly unplugged her guitar and said she was leaving.”

  “And then what?”

  “She and Martha had an argument about it. Martha said that Arlo and I needed more work to learn the parts before the concert. Kelly said we had all worked for ten hours already, and everyone was tired. She accused Martha of wanting to change the focus of the band—the same argument they’ve had for weeks. Then Kelly walked out.”

  “Did the rest of you continue working?”

  “No. Martha wanted to, but I told her I was too tired. I had hoped to follow Kelly, but by the time I got outside, her car was already gone. I drove by Galindo’s apartment at ten forty-two. If she left at ten, that was plenty of time to get there. The lights were off, and I didn’t see either his or Kelly’s car, so I assumed they had met somewhere else. Then I continued to a previously scheduled meeting with Agent Hooper.”

  “Did Salazar know where Kelly was going?”

  “He knew. He asked her why she wanted to speak to Galindo. She wouldn’t say.”

  “Did you know why?”

  “No. I teased her about it. I asked if she and Galindo were getting it on again, but she wouldn’t discuss it.”

  Elaine idly noticed how the strips of light through the blinds formed a jagged Z where they bent at the corner of the wall, then again at the floor. “Is it possible that Salazar suspected she was working for us?”

  “It’s possible. Having seen the man up close, I can tell you he’s very smart and very suspicious. The first meeting between him and Vince Hooper almost didn’t take place.” Agent Irwin leaned on the edge of the desk, clasping his hands loosely in front of him. The bars of light curved around his jacket, tie, and white shirt. “If Salazar had suspected she was a C.I., he wouldn’t necessarily have connected her with Victor Ramirez, however. The meeting Sunday is still on. That indicates that he doesn’t suspect it’s a sting.”