Florida Getaway

by Max Allan Collins

  They took pictures of the machete before dislodging and bagging it. They were pleased, and they knew Horatio Caine would be pleased with them.

  11

  “Girl Named Maria”

  WITH MARIA CHACON finishing her last show for the night, Horatio Caine positioned himself on a chair outside her dressing room, which was off stage right, in the wings. From where he sat he had a good view of her, a blur of energy out in front of the band, a Latin whirlwind of high hair and flashing eyes and white teeth and endless legs, swinging her hips and pumping her arms like a bandito firing off six-guns.

  Right now she was doing her signature “shake your bon bon” number, an encore she’d been in the midst of when he arrived. The CSI had been sent with no hassle whatsoever to the backstage area of the Conquistador’s Explorer Lounge by a most cooperative Daniel Boyle, who had then made himself singularly scarce.

  Back here, the music didn’t seem so loud; off to the side, where Caine waited, the effect was hollow, like a muffled explosion. As for Maria Chacon, she sang well enough—a husky alto—and she stayed on pitch; but mostly it was flash. Style over substance, energy over heart…or at least that was Caine’s admittedly biased view. Right now, he didn’t like this woman much. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, was it?

  He liked her for Thomas Lessor’s murder. Liked her a lot.

  The backstage area lacked the glamour of the lounge and even the upkeep of the rest of the hotel. Here you could see that this facility had been around awhile—concrete walls, worn wooden floors. A tattered glittery cardboard star rode the closed dressing-room door, and a placard with Maria’s name was cardboard as well and held up with duct tape, written in black marker by a careless hand.

  Even though he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, Caine was none the worse for wear. He had worked long hours before—the pace never bothered him; he seemed to derive energy from the chase, and as he closed in on his man—or woman—the promise of closure fueled him further.

  And, frankly, an undercurrent of nervousness spiked his energy, right now—because the truth was, he didn’t have any evidence against Maria Chacon except the circumstantial variety. And it was Horatio Caine’s job, his team’s mission, to find and interpret physical evidence.

  Right now he was left with the psychological warfare of taking her downtown, showing her what they had, implying she was seeing the tip of the iceberg when she was seeing the whole damn cube, and hoping she would crack…or that one of those two old boys would roll over on her.

  But the latter didn’t seem likely—especially with Ciccolini, who was after all her uncle. This was much more likely a family favor than straight murder-for-hire.

  It would be hard—it always was, in a matter of contract murder. If a hit man didn’t give up his employer, what physical evidence could there be? At the time Lessor was picked up from the airport, Maria was on stage at the Conquistador—singing to a roomful of corporate types putting their martinis on the company expense account.

  When the “bon bon” tune finally ended, the explosion of applause peppered with whistles and cheers told Caine how well Maria had gone over. He found her act rather contrived, but perhaps she did have star power; she had a certain charisma, and obvious sex appeal.

  And some said that successful stars needed a ruthless streak. Caine was sure she had that.

  The crowd was still yelling for more as the musicians in the band paraded past the dressing-room door on their way to their own quarters farther down.

  He didn’t see her immediately—she was hidden by the musicians, most of whom were taller than her, and was walking among them, just one of the guys, albeit a very unlikely one in her long, silvery gown with a slit that opened thigh-high whenever she took a step. Her black hair, in a pile on top of her head, was sweat-beaded, and her face, bare shoulders and chest gleamed with moisture.

  Her eyes narrowed a fraction when she noticed Caine.

  “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” she asked, as he rose from the chair and faced her.

  “I caught a nap while you were onstage. Spare a moment, Maria?”

  She shrugged, opened the dressing-room door, and went in. She didn’t exactly invite him in, but since the door hadn’t been slammed on him, Caine took the liberty of entering.

  Small and spare, the room was little more than a concrete closet with a lighted makeup table (bordered with taped-on clippings of favorable reviews), two chairs, and a flimsy metal rack that held various costume changes.

  Already seated, she read his expression in the mirror and said, “Disappointed?…I thought you’d been around Miami long enough to know that show business is mostly illusion.”

  He took a seat in the straightback chair, positioned behind her and to the right. “I don’t get backstage much.”

  She was dabbing at her face with a towel she picked up from the makeup table. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant? Somehow I don’t think you’re here for an autograph.”

  “I’m here to request that you come with me for questioning.”

  This only seemed to amuse her and she continued to study him, looking past herself in the mirror. “Why—am I a suspect now?” She pulled something on top of her head and her ebony hair tumbled down to cascade over her shoulders.

  “You are. I’d like you to come with me for an interview, and we’ll present you with what we have.”

  Underneath the amused expression, a suggestion of apprehension revealed itself. “You’re not arresting me?”

  “No. But there are indications that we need to look in your direction. I thought you might like to have the opportunity to convince us otherwise. To show us where we’re mistaken.”

  “But you can’t require me to come?”

  “No.”

  “And if I did, I could bring an attorney?”

  “You could. What I have in mind is rather more informal…give you the chance to straighten this out.”

  She swiveled in the chair, looking over her shoulder at him with a mocking smile. “Aren’t you the thoughtful one, Lieutenant…. I’ll need a few minutes to change into my street clothes.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I’ll need you to step outside.”

  “Of course.”

  Her smile widened. “Unless you feel you need to stay…and make sure I don’t slip out a window or something? Make my getaway?”

  Caine surveyed the dank, windowless room. “Oh, I think you can be trusted. Remember, this is purely voluntary on your part.”

  “Right. So we can clear this up.”

  “Right,” he said, and stepped into the hall and shut the door. Twenty minutes later, when he checked his watch for the tenth time, the closed door still separated them, and Caine was starting to wonder—there wasn’t really a way out of that dressing room, was there? She couldn’t be a suicide risk, could she? Did he need to break that door down?

  He was about to knock when the door swung open.

  Maria walked out, wearing a silk shirt buttoned only about halfway up, tight blue jeans, and a denim jacket left open. Her black hair flew loose and free and she carried a large leather bag over her left shoulder.

  “You’ll have to take me as I am,” she said, moving into the hall and closing the door. Her stage makeup was gone, replaced by a smidge of lipstick and little else.

  He just looked at her.

  “I don’t have a shower here,” she explained. “If you want a fresher me, we’ll have to stop by my apartment first.”

  “No. Let’s just rough it.”

  “Your choice.”

  As they exited out through the lounge, toward the door into the hall leading to the lobby, Caine had a feeling that something had changed, however subtly. There was something about Maria’s attitude, her demeanor, that bothered him. Her apprehension seemed to have evaporated, and she might have been looking forward to spending the next few hours under interrogation.

  They weren’t even to the lobby when the first reporter approached. One of
the TV guys, a tall, skinny guy with brown hair and a navy blue suit—Jackson, Caine thought the man’s name was—was accompanied by a cameraman with a WFOR 4 decal on his camera. The CBS affiliate.

  “Lieutenant Caine,” the reporter said, shoving his microphone toward the CSI. “Are you arresting Ms. Chacon?”

  So that’s what Maria had been doing all that time in her showerless dressing room: calling the media, hoping to fire up the free publicity machine! That also meant that she figured she had nothing to fear from Caine, which troubled him far more than the presence of the press.

  His knee-jerk reaction was to spoil Maria’s shabby little media blitz by revealing her real name and that her uncle was in custody for murdering the Conquistador chain’s own Thomas Lessor. She wanted publicity? Then how about making sure every media outlet in the South Florida area knew that the Miami-Dade PD had Maria Chacon’s uncle cold.

  Instead, he remained superficially cordial to the press of press.

  “No,” Caine said, “Ms. Chacon is not under arrest. She is a material witness in a case currently under investigation.”

  Another reporter blurted: “Ms. Chacon is a very popular entertainer!”

  “That’s not a question. If you’ll excuse us…ladies…gentlemen….”

  The CBS reporter walked right along with them now, the cameraman backing up in front of them, trying to keep all three of them in the shot. The other media people pushed and shoved each other, as they tagged along.

  “Lieutenant Caine, would the case in question happen to be the Thomas Lessor murder?”

  Caine did not intend to perform in the center ring of this circus, not any longer, and as they neared the doors of the lobby, he saw more reporters, both TV and newspaper, making their way inside—and among the logos were CNN and MSNBC. He went into shutdown mode.

  “No further comment,” he said.

  “Is Ms. Chacon a suspect?”

  “Which part of ‘no comment’ isn’t clear to you, Mr. Jackson?”

  “Maria! What do you have to say? Are you worried?”

  Her smile seemed to illuminate the whole lobby, even more than the TV lights. “I’m just a good citizen, cooperating with law enforcement—and you’ll see me back on stage tomorrow night! Right here at the Conquistador!”

  Their progress ground to a halt as the other reporters pressed around them and Caine cursed himself for allowing her that much time alone in that dressing room. Leave it to her to turn a murder into a career move.

  He took her by the elbow and steered her through the crowd that had now grown to nearly a dozen media piranhas, and they smelled blood. He got her out the front doors, into the cool night air, but more media were waiting, and the rest were on their heels.

  “Thomas Lessor was a dear friend,” Maria said into one camera, a microphone bobbing in front of her, even as Caine struggled to get the woman past the hungry media eyes and ears, and to the Hummer.

  “Tom Lessor will be missed,” she said sorrowfully to another reporter.

  Caine finally maneuvered the Hummer’s door open and deposited Maria into the backseat. The reporters split into two groups, half staying to either yell questions through the closed window or get a video shot through the glass, while the others hounded Caine as he moved around to the driver’s side and got in. He locked the doors, fired the engine, and rolled slowly forward until they had put the reporters behind them; then, with a relieved sigh, he gunned it down Collins Avenue.

  Watching her in the rearview mirror, he said, “Quite the stunt, Maria.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment. Somehow I don’t think I’m the first man you’ve made a chump out of.”

  Her self-satisfied smile said, Or the last. Then, as she looked out the window, she said almost absently, “You know what they say—it doesn’t matter what they’re saying as long as they’re talking about you.”

  “Doesn’t matter what they print, as long as they spell your name right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you think they really know how to spell your name?”

  He saw her, in the rearview mirror, look pointedly at him. “What do you mean?”

  But it wasn’t time to play the Ciccolini card, not just yet.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “…I am grateful to you, Lieutenant. You were the one that made all this possible. I’ll get more free airtime for the next twenty-four hours than I could possibly afford even with a major record company behind me.”

  “You really think being linked to two murders is good PR?”

  “As long as I’m an innocent victim in all of this, sure. And I’m helping the police, right?”

  Caine shook his head. “Innocent or not, you’re exploiting two dead men.”

  She frowned. “You think it’s better if they died for nothing?”

  He threw her a sharp look. “Is that why they died? To better the career of Maria Chacon?”

  “Lieutenant—I have no idea why they died. I wish Thomas Lessor were alive right now—not just because he was my…friend…but because that would be good for my career. Don’t make me rethink helping you people out on this thing.”

  They made the rest of the trip in silence. When they got to headquarters, Caine deposited her in an interview room.

  “I’ll be with you shortly,” Caine said. “Can I have someone get you some coffee?”

  “No. I’m fine. Will you be long?”

  “Just gathering some material to discuss with you.”

  “Good. I don’t want to have to go through this indignity more than once.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  In truth, Caine needed to check in with his team and see if they’d come up with anything new, particularly relating to Maria herself.

  First on his list was Speedle and Delko. They were in the DNA lab taking blood samples from a machete.

  “This the murder weapon?” Caine asked as he came through the double glass doors.

  “Well, it’s a machete that was hidden under Vincent Ciccolini’s workbench,” Speedle said. “We’re testing it now.”

  “Prints?”

  Delko said, “Some real beauties on the handle—Rosselli and Lipnick.”

  “Good job,” Caine said. “Keep at it. Anything else?”

  “Fiber is working on the clothes,” Delko said. “We might be able to match one of their suits to the driver’s seat in the limo.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “And,” Speedle added, “we’ve already matched footprints from all three to dust in the parking lot.”

  “Excellent. What about the beach?”

  “Nope—can’t make that happen. Sand was too messed up. But we used the electrostatic print-lifter in the parking lot, also the car. We should be able to match one of their shoes to a really sweet print we got off the brake pedal.”

  “So,” Caine said, eyes tight as he summed up, “we can put them in the car and with the machete.”

  “Dead bang,” Delko said. “And the composition of the garbage bags Speed got from Ciccolini’s house matches the one we found on the beach, though the perforations are off.”

  “Which means…” Caine began.

  Delko, nodding, finished: “There was definitely more than one bag.”

  “And,” Speedle put in, “the hearing aid and batteries matched. Those old boys were on that beach.”

  “Actually, we can only put Lipnick there…but it’s good. Very good.” And now the big question. “Anything to tie Maria to this?”

  Delko and Speedle glanced at each other, then looked sheepishly at Caine, and shook their heads.

  “Not to brag about, anyway,” Speedle said. “But we did run her phone records. There’s one interesting, possibly significant call…”

  “Shall I guess or will you tell me?”

  “Maria got a call from Vegas the night before Erica Hardy died.”

  Caine frowned. “Who from?”

  Speed said, �
�This is the interesting—and weird—part: it was Erica Hardy’s number…and the call lasted three-quarters of an hour.”

  That threw Caine. “Maria said she didn’t know Hardy—she only had a vague sense of the affair from something she’d overheard.”

  “Been an epidemic of lying in this case,” Delko pointed out.

  “Erica calling Maria is an interesting new wrinkle,” Caine said, frowning. “Very likely helpful. We just have to think it through. Solid work, fellas.”

  His next stop was the morgue, where he found Alexx Woods bending over her latest client, talking to the corpse in a soft, soothing voice. “Who did this bad thing to you, baby?”

  The corpse—a young Hispanic man in his late teens to early twenties—did not respond.

  “Who’s your new friend?” Caine asked.

  “Graveyard shift brought him in from Little Havana. GSW to the chest.”

  Gunshot wound—far too many of those in this city; all Caine could do was shake his head. Another young man who would never marry, never have a family, never buy a house.

  Alexx bestowed a sultry smile. “You want to know if I have anything new for you on your double murder, right?”

  “I do,” he admitted.

  “I don’t.” She shook her head. “I wish I did, Horatio—but the bullets from Lessor were it.”

  “I had to check.”

  “Yes, you did…. All right now, baby…this won’thurt at all….”

  Caine hadn’t expected much, which was exactly what he’d gotten. The mention of bullets, though, sent him next to Calleigh Duquesne—who was in her lab, lowered over a microscope.

  “Please say you have something for me,” he said.

  “You sound in a hurry.”

  “I have Maria Chacon cooling her heels.”

  “We have enough to arrest her?”

  “I wish. She’s just being ‘cooperative.’ ”

  “She’s just yanking your chain, you mean. And you’re doing a quick tour of your troops to see what we’ve come up with. Well, how about a perfect match on the gun that killed Thomas Lessor and Johnny ‘The Rat’ Guzzoli?”

  “Sweet. We can’t be lucky enough to have fingerprints on the gun, old pros like them?”