MIAMI ICED

by Susan Sussman

  “Damn,” he says softly. “I thought you might have seen me. But I wasn’t following you.”

  I laugh. “Right. You just happened to be at my trial. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world...”

  “I mean it. It’s my trial, too.”

  “What?”

  “Look, I need to see you, talk to you in person. Let me pick you up.”

  There’s no way I’m telling him where I live. For sure there’s no way I’m getting into a car alone with him. “You tell me what’s going on,” I say.

  “I don’t want to do this over the phone.”

  “And I’m not meeting you in person.”

  “You can trust me,” he says.

  “Right.”

  “Look, I’m up in Ft. Lauderdale. I can probably get out of here around seven-thirty.”

  “Get out of where? Where are you? Who are you?”

  “I promise I’ll tell you everything. But I want to do it face to face. I owe you that. How about we meet in the middle? Someplace crowded. Lots of people around. What about Hollywood Beach? The Johnson Street Band shell?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “I’ll be there. Seven-thirty.”

  “I said, I’ll think about it.”

  23

  I turn off A1A and score a space on the street. “Let me go on ahead,” I say.

  “I don’t think that’s safe,” says Bitsy.

  “Not wise,” says May.

  I’ve brought Thelma and Louise as covert backup. The way these new BFF’s feel about men right now, if Parker makes one wrong move they’ll rip off his limbs and serve them up with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

  “I don’t want Parker seeing us together,” I say. “If I show up with an entourage, we’ll either scare him off or he’ll edit what he has to say.”

  “We’ll stay close,” says Bitsy, “but unobtrusive.” Miss Marple lives.

  I join groups meandering along the Hollywood Broadwalk toward the Bandshell, staying alert for Parker. A slight ocean breeze nudges the soggy air like a whisper in a steam room. It’s seven-fifteen and the last of the sun casts long shadows, the temperature plunging into the high eighties. East of the Bandshell, across a strip of sand, the ocean glitters a brilliant blue. Beach goers close up for the day, folding colorful umbrellas, packing coolers, shaking sand from crotches and towels. So far, no Parker, but I’m ever watchful.

  I don’t do Victim. I’ve never had patience for movies where a woman, in bed alone, is suddenly awakened by a sound. Outside, a storm rages, rain pelting, wind howling. The sound again! Glass breaking? Footsteps?

  Lock the bedroom door, you ninny. Pick up the phone. Call 911.

  She slides out of bed – perfectly coiffed, clothed in a wisp of something Victoria’s Secret -- and goes to investigate. The male screenwriters – no woman would write this -- give her scintillating dialogue, something like “Kitty? Kitty, is that you?” Shutters bang, floorboards creak, lights flicker and die. In the distance, a Banshee wails.

  She enters the dark kitchen wherein the butcher knife lives. It is missing.

  or…

  She ascends to the cobwebbed attic. Something skitters along the rafters.

  or…

  She descends creaky steps to the dank, dark basement. “Kitty?”

  No, I don’t do Victim.

  But Curious is a whole ‘nother thing. And the truth is I am dying (please, not literally) to hear what Parker has to say.

  The Johnson Street Bandshell stands guard mid-way on the boardwalk, its back to the ocean, the bandshell facing rows of benches. In season, five hundred people squeeze together to listen to live jazz, rock, pop, country. Tonight’s house isn’t even half full. I take the end seat in the front row. From here I can watch people coming in off the beach as well as those approaching the boardwalk from the north and south. A couple of zaftig women in bathing suits sit next to me laughing and talking and enjoying the hell out of towering ice cream cones. Bitsy and May slide into seats a few rows back. Parker has never met May and he only saw Bitsy briefly the day she and Wendel were on my boat, the day Parker said he was checking out the propeller. We don’t think he’ll recognize her, but, to play it safe, Bitsy disguised herself in a floppy-brimmed beach hat and large sunglasses.

  I scan the steady stream of happy half-naked roller bladders, bikers, walkers, joggers, searching for anyone who might be Parker. My shoulders tense up around my ears. I try to relax, roll my head, rotate my shoulders. Four musicians tune up on stage. More people amble in from the beach and the open-air cafes. The benches fill and the air around me grows thick with sounds of French, Spanish, Russian, Portuguese and a smattering of English. Seven twenty-five. Do you know where your stalker is?

  At seven-thirty sharp the bandleader taps on his mike, introduces the band, and launches into something Electric Slide. People swarm off the benches forming long lines, dancers in bathing suits and cover-ups and casual wear and sequins, young dancers, old dancers, able-bodied and walker-assisted. The phalanx of bodies blocks my view of the boardwalk and the beach. Why did I think meeting Parker in a crowd would be safe? He could jump out and shoot me or knife me or strike me about the head and shoulders with a dead fish, then disappear unnoticed into the line dancers. Fear snakes up my neck. This was stupid. I stand to tell Bitsy and May we’re getting out of here.

  “Laura!” Parker shouts from the boardwalk, jogging toward me, his shirt stained with sweat. “Laura!” waving his arms until he’s sure I see him. Then he stops, bending over, hands on knees, gasping. I glance back. Bitsy and May have spotted him, straighten like a couple of poodles on point. I walk over to him.

  “Mistake,” he says. “Parked….down at…paddle ball courts. Thought it was…closer. Afraid…you’d leave.”

  I fold my arms, waiting. The band segues from the Electric Slide into Elvira. Parker’s lips are moving. “What?” I shout.

  “…can’t talk here,” he yells. “…. go to one of the cafes.”

  “All right.” I scratch the back of my head, my super-spy signal to Bitsy and May to follow. We walk north along the café-cluttered strip until the blaring music fades to background.

  “Pick any place you want,” he says.

  I keep walking until I spot a cafe with an unoccupied table out on the boardwalk. I want to sit where my backup crew can keep an eye on me. “This is good,” I say, taking the chair facing south toward the Bandshell, forcing Parker to face north so he won’t see May and Bitsy settle in a few tables over.

  A waiter materializes. “I’m not hungry,” I say.

  “I am,” says Parker. “Haven’t eaten since breakfast. I’ll have a burger cooked real well done, fries and a cold beer.”

  “Make that two beers,” I say.

  “Make it a pitcher,” says Parker. The waiter leaves and Parker takes out his wallet, pulls out a card, and tosses it on the table in front of me. A big silver star is embossed on a blue card: Houston Police Department. The I.D. photo shows a younger Parker, razor cut hair thicker and darker, beefier face, fewer wrinkles around his eyes. “I was a homicide detective,” he says.

  “Was? Were you kicked off the force for stalking?”

  “Retired ten years ago,” he says. He pulls out another card, places it next to the first, “went into business for myself.” The photo on the Private Investigator card shows the shaggier, skinnier Parker I’ve come to know and mistrust.

  “And you’re following me because….?”

  “I told you, Laura, this isn’t about you. I came to court today because of my clients.”

  “Who are…?”

  “Anthony and Catherine Lucas. Brandy and Mel Lucas’ children.”

  Two and two are five. “You’re working for them?”

  “Yes.” The waiter sets down a couple of frosty mugs, his eyes widening at Parker’s star-studded credentials. Parker slides them back in his wallet and tilts back in his chair, waiting as the waiter pours our beers.

/>   Two wild and crazy guys pass by, tight plaid pants and mis-matched polyester print shirts, Martin and Aykroyd checking out women the way butchers check sides of beef. One of them winks at me as they swagger toward the Bandshell. At the next table, a waitress brings glasses of white wine to Bitsy and May. Our waiter leaves and I chug half my beer. It takes the edge off the heat.

  Parker takes a swig of his beer. “When the police found Brandy’s body,” he says, “the Lucas kids hired me to find their parents’ money and jewelry.”

  “Why you?”

  “Because I’m good.”

  “And modest.”

  “Hey, you asked. It took me about three seconds to track Brandy’s jewelry to Galdino’s New Jersey fence. Most of the stuff had already been shipped to customers in Japan, Saudi Arabia, places where it will disappear forever.”

  I think about the New Jersey jeweler in the bad suit sweating on the witness stand. “How did you get him to testify against Galdino?”

  “I can be persuasive. Worked a deal to lighten some New Jersey charges in exchange for his Florida testimony.”

  “But he swore on the witness stand there was no deal.”

  “Yeah, the guy’s a real pillar of the community. Besides, perjury is the least of his problems.”

  The waiter sets a burger with thick fries in front of Parker. My stomach lurches. “Anything else?” asks the waiter.

  “I’ll have one of those,” I say, “medium rare.”

  Parker squeezes Jackson Pollack squiggles of ketchup and mustard over his fries. Behind him, Bitsy holds up a menu and waves it at me. Should they order? I nod, yes.

  Parker pushes his plate toward me. “Fry?”

  I pick the darkest. It is, hands down, the best fry in the recorded history of time. “Are you still working for the Lucas kids?” I ask.

  “I still haven’t found the cash.”

  “So, that’s a yes.”

  “Yes.”

  I take another fry. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? All those hours on my boat, you never said a word.”

  He mumbles something I don’t get. “What?”

  He stops, looks me square in the eyes. “I said, Laura, I thought you might be a part of it.”

  “Me?” incredulous, “Why?”

  “Before you showed up in court, I’d pretty well exhausted every lead. Millions of dollars seemed to have disappeared into thin air.”

  “You thought I had it?”

  “Like I said, I’d run out of ideas. Then, one day I came to the trial to watch the fence testify and I saw you in the courtroom.”

  “I’d just been released from jury duty,” I say. “I’d ducked into that courtroom to get out of a storm. Why suspect me?”

  “I saw you follow Galdino’s daughter into the bathroom.”

  “Caprice?”

  He nods. “I thought maybe you had a connection to her.”

  “I did,” I say. He tenses. “I’m a mother and I saw a child in pain and alone. Her father was on trial for murder and her rotten cousins – your clients – were making her miserable. You bet I felt a connection.”

  “In my defense, I didn’t know you. So I put one of my people on it.”

  “You have people?”

  He smiles. “I do when I need them. We all do, one way or another.” I glance over at Bitsy and May, my ‘people’ enjoying a cool glass of wine on a sweltering night. Parker and I reach for a fry at the same time, bump hands. I feel teen-ager awkward. He shifts his burger basket around to give me easier access.

  “That woman,” he stops, clears his throat, “that older gal who followed you and Caprice into the courthouse bathroom, drives around in a white truck with the heavyset driver? They’re husband and wife. Both retired military intelligence. They like to keep a hand in. They got your tag number and traced it for me, followed you to the marina, kept an eye on you until I got there.”

  “And you made the logical jump from me talking to Caprice to suspecting me of murder and grand theft.”

  “Before you get all hinky on me, remember I was out there scrambling for any scrap of info that would lead me to the money. You showed up at the Galdino trial, made contact with my clients’ cousin. You own a boat.”

  “What does my boat have to do with anything?”

  “The Dandy Brandy was a big part of Mel and Brandy’s lives. The same company owns both your marinas. It’s possible you met them, developed a friendship.”

  “You have a strange mind.”

  “It’s good at connecting dots.”

  “I’m not a dot.”

  A black Adonis roller skates by, the mini boom box strapped to his waist blaring We will, we will rock you. He is shirtless, his muscled body glistening under the early evening lights. He moves like air, dancing and flowing down the boardwalk as lithe as a ballerina. I choke up, overwhelmed by the beauty of it.

  Parker takes my silence to mean I’m angry. “Look,” he says, “the Lucas’ were a flashy couple, threw money around, wore expensive jewelry. People like that are easy marks for any number of criminal types.”

  “So now I’m a criminal type?”

  “I figured that spending time with you was the easiest way to find out who you were and what connected you to the case.”

  “There is no connection,” I say. “Until last week, I never heard of any of these people. I never even knew where the courthouse was.”

  “Right. But it took a while for me to check you out.”

  I finish my beer and he takes my glass, tilting it forty-five degrees, pouring a stream into the middle of the mug. Michael did that, said it made the perfect mix of beer and foam. Michael. Guilt hits me hard. Have I thought of him today?

  -So much has been going on.

  -That’s no excuse.

  I take a sip of beer, stalling for time to understand what is happening. My world just shifted and I need to regain my footing. This is one of those life moments when everything snaps to a particular clarity. I see now how much I have moved on, how I have released my chokehold on the past enough to move into my future.

  “What was that bit with my propeller?” I ask.

  “I needed access to check out your boat.”

  “This just gets worse and worse.”

  He folds his arms on the table and leans toward me. “The Lucas kids came to me, said they think their uncle offed their mother and their father. Said the police weren’t much help. I took the case, found the fenced jewelry. But the money is still missing. So, I checked out your boat for anything that might tie you to the Lucas’ or Galdino.”

  “Like?”

  “Traces of Mel Lucas’ blood. Money stuffed in a dummy gas tank. Gas receipts proving you sailed from here to Palm Beach around the time of the murders. Maybe sailed on up to New Jersey. Anything, everything. And to do that I needed time to check your boat out of the water, without you around.”

  “I can’t believe you could think I’d be involved in this.”

  “Yeah, well…” he drags a fry through some ketchup. He hasn’t touched his burger. He is, I realize, waiting for me to be served. The polite thing would be for me to tell him to go ahead and start.

  “I don’t like that you went through my stuff,” I say. “Is that even legal?”

  “Legal?” says Parker. “While I was going through your boat, you went aboard the Dandy Brandy. What were you doing?”

  “I told you…”

  “Looking for decorating ideas? Come on, Laura.”

  How much do I tell him? I run the palm of my hand down the sweating pitcher of beer, press the cold wetness against the back of my neck. How much do I trust this man? I glance up at Bitsy and May, notice the two wild and crazy guys standing talking at their table. The bandstand music makes it impossible for me to hear what they’re saying, but Bitsy and May look stunned.

  “I was curious,” I say. “I’d seen photos of the Dandy Brandy in the newspapers. I just wanted to look around.”

  “For?”


  “Like you said, for anything.”

  My hamburger arrives and we both dig into our meals as if we haven’t eaten for weeks. Nirvana. You can keep your filet mignon and lobster tail. Give me a cheap, fatty, juicy burger any day of the week. I set the burger down long enough to pile on mustard and ketchup and lettuce and pickles and the side of coleslaw. Parker watches, amused. At the next table, the polyester pair have pulled up chairs. I hear laughter.

  “And,” says Parker, “what did you find on the Lucas’ boat?”

  “It’s more like what I didn’t find.” I tell him about the extra propeller missing from its usual spot.

  “The Lucas kids never mentioned a propeller,” he says.

  “I thought you were a boater.”

  “Where I come from, the only ‘extra’ boaters stow is beer. Carrying a spare propeller is a rich man’s thing. Never occurred to me.” He looks mightily pissed. “The kids should have known.”

  “Do you really think the Lucas children ever lifted a hand to help their parents on the boat?”

  Parker pours the third round of beer. When did I finish the second? I breathe the ocean air long and deep, mix negative ions with positive beer buzz. A bottle of wine pours freely at my sister’s table where the silk-and-poly-blend duo huddles with the women in earnest conversation.

  “You said you were hired by the Lucas children to find their parent’s money,” I say. “What about finding their father?”

  “They never asked.”

  “About their father? How could they not?”

  “That’s never been an issue. They’re positive their uncle killed both their parents and stole the jewelry and money.”

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  He tilts back in his chair, testing the tensile limits of the cheap plastic. “When Anthony and Catherine first came to my office,” he says, “I asked if it was possible their dad killed their mother and ran off with the money. Anthony tried to hurdle my desk and strangle me. Luckily he was too strung out on drugs to make the trip. Those kids are positive Galdino did it. Called him a mean son-of-a-bitch. Said they’ve be afraid of the guy since they were kids. Hated him.”

  “What about you?” I ask. “Do you think it’s possible Mel killed Brandy?”