Hot Schemes

by Sherryl Woods

  Molly heard only about half of the story Ted was telling. She’d suddenly noticed the delivery truck drivers who were all gathered around their vehicles in a lot across the street awaiting an end to the protest.

  “Ted, thanks again for the tip tonight,” she said distractedly, her attention already focused on the drivers.

  “Hey, where are you going?”

  “To find Miguel’s route supervisor.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he said at once, hurrying after her.

  She glanced back at him. “Okay, but I ask the questions.”

  He regarded her with clearly feigned indignation. “Hey, who’s the reporter here?”

  “You’re off duty, remember?”

  “Dammit, Molly, O’Hara will kill me if you get into a bind asking questions of the wrong person.”

  “I am not your responsibility,” she reminded him. “I’m not Michael’s either, for that matter. Last I heard, I had God-given free will.”

  “Jesus, we’ve gone from Constitutional rights to the big time,” Ted said. “How are you going to find this guy? You don’t even know his name, do you?”

  “No, but I know where Miguel’s route was. He delivered to the houses in the Shenandoah section. That’s why he kept his boat on Key Biscayne. He could drive straight over the causeway when he finished his deliveries and be on the water by dawn.”

  Fortunately, all of the route bosses were clustered in one place. It took only one casually asked inquiry to find the man who supervised the Shenandoah area deliveries. He was a cigar-chomping, overweight hulk of a man who identified himself as Jack Miller. He looked at Ted, his gaze narrowed.

  “You’re that guy we ran the campaign on a few months back, aren’t you? Had your picture on the trucks. Ryan, right?”

  Ted nodded, his expression pleased. The recognition apparently served to overcome his reservations about Molly’s interviewing the guy. He turned downright expansive, in fact, introducing her as if she were his personal protégée.

  Miller removed his cigar from his mouth long enough to mutter a greeting. “You looking for me?”

  She nodded. “I’m wondering about Miguel Garcia. Are you his supervisor?”

  His gaze narrowed suspiciously. “Now why would you want to know something like that? You a TV reporter? I don’t see no camera.”

  “I’m not a reporter. I’m a close friend of his family’s, and it occurred to me that you might have been one of the last people to see him before he disappeared.”

  Some of his suspicion melted away. “Could be,” he conceded.

  She decided she’d better seize that scant opening and run with it. “He worked Sunday morning?”

  “Like clockwork. He’s been one of my best employees.”

  “Always on time?”

  “The man has the constitution of a horse. He’s never missed a day I can think of, not without sending somebody to cover his route anyway.”

  “What did you think when he didn’t show up last night?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t think nothing. He wasn’t supposed to work.”

  Molly regarded him with surprise. “He wasn’t?”

  “No, ma’am. Took vacation. Asked for it a month ago at least.”

  “How long was he supposed to be off?”

  “Two weeks is what he told me. No matter what’s gone on, I fully expect him to show up. García’s the kind of man I’d rely on if my life depended on it.”

  “So there was nothing on Sunday you thought was suspicious, nothing in his demeanor that was out of character?”

  Miller hesitated over the question, as if he were chewing it over in his head. “Now that I think back on it, there was one thing. Pardon me for saying it, but anyone else I’d have said they were getting lucky.” He looked at Molly. “You know what I’m talking about?” At her nod, he continued, “I’ve seen that look with guys who have something going on on the side. Not García, though. He loved that wife of his. Talked about her all the time.”

  “What was different about him on Sunday?”

  “He looked real happy. Never saw him look that way before, you know what I mean?”

  “As if he was looking forward to something,” Molly suggested.

  Miller bobbed his head. “Exactly. Like he couldn’t wait for something special that was going to happen. Like a kid on Christmas morning, you know?”

  “Or maybe a man who was going home to Cuba,” she said softly.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  As Ted Ryan had predicted, the Miami police moved the demonstration into a contained area shortly after one A.M. and the newspaper’s delivery trucks began to roll. Before long, with their audience dwindling and their effectiveness stymied, the protesters began to pack up and leave themselves. Michael’s expression was grim when he joined Molly and the reporter.

  “Did you find out anything?” Molly asked him.

  “You mean besides the fact that this paper is run by racist Commies?”

  “My boss, the devoted Republican, will be thrilled to know that,” Ted said dryly. “Obviously, his journalistic evenhandedness is paying off. He’s clearly not inflicting his conservative views on the reading public.”

  Michael shot a look at the reporter that Molly found troubling. “You did find out what this was all about, didn’t you? I mean beyond the usual rhetoric.”

  “You mean Ryan here hasn’t told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “It was his story today that set them off. Apparently they felt his portrayal of Miguel made him look like part of some lunatic-fringe organization.”

  Ted paled at that. “I didn’t write anything that wasn’t absolutely true,” he argued.

  Molly began to understand why he’d been so evasive earlier. She also recognized just from the comments he’d made to her that he held certain Anglo prejudices that might very well have come through in his reporting. Alone the story might have been viewed as an example of biased reporting. Added to dozens of other articles, it had triggered a protest. She couldn’t blame Ted for wanting to downplay his role in the night’s events.

  “Look, let’s just forget about what started the protest,” she suggested. “We need to focus on Miguel. Were you able to learn anything about his disappearance from any of Paredes’s backers?”

  “No. Trying to talk to these guys was an absolute waste of time,” Michael said. “I know damn well that they know something about what happened to Tío Miguel, but they’ll deny it with their dying breaths.”

  “Maybe this was the wrong place to confront them,” Molly suggested. “Here they’re unified. Naturally no one would break ranks and spill the beans. Did you get names, addresses, phone numbers?”

  “From the ones who would tell me,” he said, his voice filled with frustration. “Since I wasn’t here on official business, I couldn’t force them even to give me that much.”

  “So you’ll start tomorrow with the ones who did identify themselves,” she said. “Where are your notes?”

  “What for?”

  “So I can give the names to Ted,” she explained patiently. “He can check them out in the newspaper’s files and with the foreign desk to see if any of them are prime movers and shakers among the exile groups.”

  “I could do the same thing at the police station,” he countered with a stubborn set to his jaw.

  Molly wasn’t sure if he was behaving like a jerk because she was trying to involve Ted Ryan—his perceived competition for her affections—in the investigation or if he was just plain exhausted. She decided to assume it was the latter. On two hours’ sleep, it was a logical enough assumption. And that conclusion was the only thing enabling her to continue her fragile grip on her patience.

  “And then we’ll have two angles on the situation, won’t we?” she replied quietly.

  He scowled at her. “I suppose.” He handed over his notes and allowed Ted to copy the names.

  “I’ll get right on it,” Ted said. “Where sh
ould I call you?”

  “My place,” Molly and Michael said simultaneously. They were not referring to the same place.

  This time she glared at him. “Mine is closer. You’re beat and so am I.”

  “Okay, fine. Whatever,” Michael said. He looked at Ted and added grudgingly, “Thanks for calling earlier.”

  “No problem. I’ll speak to you in the morning. Maybe Walt will have some news by then too.”

  “Night, Ted,” Molly said.

  “Who’s Walt?” Michael asked as they walked back to his car.

  “Hazelton. He’s their chief foreign correspondent for the Caribbean. He’s making some calls into Cuba to see if there’s any word there about armed guerrillas sneaking onto the island.”

  “Molly, as much as I’d like to believe otherwise, I don’t think Miguel went back to Cuba.”

  “Twenty-four hours ago that was all you were willing to consider,” she reminded him.

  “That was before the boat blew to smithereens.”

  “Then you should have been around when I talked with Tío Miguel’s supervisor. He says when he saw him on Sunday morning, he looked happier than he’d ever seen him, like a man who might be going home again.”

  Michael regarded her in disbelief. “You’re basing this cock-and-bull theory on the fact that my uncle was in a good mood, for God’s sake? The man was always in a good mood.”

  “This was different,” Molly insisted, refusing to be put off by his skepticism. “Jack Miller could see it and, believe me, he doesn’t strike me as a man prone to intuitive guesswork. There had to be some real change in your uncle’s demeanor for him to notice it. Haven’t you ever noticed that for all of his apparent good humor, Tío Miguel’s eyes always look kind of sad and faraway?”

  “I suppose,” Michael conceded wearily.

  “I think we need to talk to your aunt again tomorrow.

  “I was planning on it, but you obviously have something specific in mind. What?”

  “I think we need to see if she suspects that your uncle has gone back to Cuba, but is afraid to admit it because it might jeopardize some grand scheme these guys have.”

  “Don’t you think she would have told me that?”

  “Not if she was afraid that telling would put him in greater danger or might even put you in danger. Don’t you remember, when you called her on Sunday afternoon, you said yourself she sounded as if she was worried about something. You detected it in her voice. That’s why you were so hell-bent on looking for him right away. Isn’t it possible she knew what he was up to?”

  Michael looked thoughtful. “You could be right. If that’s the case, though, we won’t pry it out of her. We’ll have to talk to Tía Elena.”

  Now Molly was having trouble following his logic. “Why her?”

  “Because Miguel might have confided in Tío Pedro. Pedro won’t break a confidence to talk to me, but he keeps nothing from his wife. Pilar would know that, as well, and she might even have confided in her sister. That’s two people talking to Elena.”

  “And you have always been able to wheedle anything you wanted from her, right?”

  He grinned. “I am her favorite nephew, after all.”

  Molly shook her head. “I can’t imagine why.”

  He reached over, clasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Sure you can, amiga. No one is more aware of my charms than you.”

  With a sudden leap of her pulse, Molly decided tonight might be a good night to find out exactly how charming Michael O’Hara could be … if either of them could stay awake long enough.

  Apparently Michael intended to give it a try, because he took her hand when they left the car and didn’t release it until they were in her bedroom.

  “So, amiga, how do you feel about finishing what you began in my bedroom earlier today?” he said.

  Molly met his serious gaze. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  His hands framed her face. “We have waited a long time for this, querida. We could probably have found a better time, a better night.”

  She felt herself smiling. “Don’t start making excuses for yourself, O’Hara.”

  “I will need no excuses,” he assured her with a touch of macho arrogance that made Molly’s heart hammer at its promise.

  “And here I was so sure you were out of practice.”

  “There are some things a man never forgets,” he said quietly just as his lips met hers.

  With his mouth teaching her amazing nuances of the art of the kiss and his hands deftly exploring other parts of her anatomy, Molly was in no position to argue. In fact, she wondered as they scrambled out of their clothes and into the bed, if Michael would be willing to continue burning the basics into her memory from now till doomsday.

  • • •

  It didn’t come as a great shock to Molly that even on one of his worst nights, when he was fighting bone-deep exhaustion, Michael was hotter and more thoughtful in bed than the wildest fantasy she had ever had. The man had amazing reserves of stamina and the touch of a sinner.

  Unfortunately it also came as no surprise that he was all business in the morning.

  “Let’s go, amiga,” he said after what had to have been no more than fifteen minutes of uninterrupted sleep.

  Molly mumbled something derogatory and tried to hide under the covers. He smacked her on the bottom and repeated his demand.

  “Coffee’s on and the train leaves in twenty minutes,” he announced.

  Molly blinked, inched the covers down to her chin and peered up at him. “What train?”

  “It’s a figure of speech. Do you want to sleep all day or do you want to help me find my uncle?”

  It was a toss-up, she decided. But given the way she’d groused until he included her as a partner in the investigation, she couldn’t bail out now just so she could indulge in some sleepy, steamy reminiscences about the night just past.

  Twenty minutes later on the dot, Michael was waiting for her at the front door, a cup of coffee in hand.

  “Toast?” she suggested hopefully.

  “No time. We’ll stop later. I want to catch Luis Díaz-Nuñez before he leaves the radio station.”

  Molly had forgotten all about the controversial commentator. She had plenty of time to recall his vitriolic personality over the next half hour since Michael kept the car radio tuned to his station as they drove across the causeway and along Coral Way until they reached the broadcast studio. She didn’t understand most of Diaz-Nuñez’s words, but there was no mistaking the tenor. The morning paper was mentioned often enough for her to guess he had taken up the cause of the previous night’s demonstrators.

  At the station Molly waited for Michael to try to relegate her to another wait in the car. To her astonishment, he didn’t say a word. He just walked around and opened her door.

  “You want me to go in?” she asked with undisguised astonishment.

  “Something tells me your presence will rattle Díaz-Nuñez.”

  “Why?”

  He grinned. “You are not aware of his reputation?”

  “As a commentator, yes,” she said.

  “He also regards himself as quite a ladies’ man. I’m hoping he’ll be so engrossed in the amusement of trying to seduce you under my very eyes that he’ll be less cautious in the answers he gives me.”

  “And here I thought you wanted to take advantage of my great interrogation skills.”

  “Oh, feel free to chime in anytime. Just don’t expect him to take you seriously. He is not exactly a modern, liberated male when it comes to his views of women.”

  Molly detected an odd note in his voice. “Just how well do you know this guy?”

  “Well enough,” Michael replied curtly.

  “Obviously you don’t have much respect for him. Why would you know him so well?”

  “He was involved with my cousin Ileana for a while. I figure another three years of recovery and she’ll have her self-esteem back.”

  “And you want to
throw me to this wolf?”

  He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Never, amiga. I just wish to dangle the bait, so to speak.”

  She frowned at him. “What a pleasant prospect.”

  • • •

  In his pin-striped suit and designer loafers, Luis Díaz-Nuñez was younger than Molly had anticipated, maybe in his early forties, and definitely more polished. With his prematurely gray hair, olive complexion, soulful brown eyes, and a smile that transformed his face, he was also better looking. Her heart did a dutiful little pit-a-patter, just as he’d no doubt intended. She could see that flirting was as much second nature to him as cross-examining people was to Michael.

  He ushered Michael and Molly into a cramped office cluttered with Spanish-language newspapers and magazines. On the wall were framed photographs of the newscaster with President Reagan, President Bush, and the head of the powerful Cuban-American National Foundation. Clearly this was a man with ties to Washington. No doubt his radio show had given these same political creatures access to a huge Cuban audience that they needed to win support in South Florida.

  “It is a terrible thing about your uncle’s boat,” he said to Michael when they were seated. All the while his gaze was on Molly. On her legs, to be precise. He finally blinked and looked back at Michael. “Do you know who is behind it?”

  Michael shook his head. “I thought perhaps you might have some ideas.”

  Molly leaned forward, a movement that gave her the opportunity to tug her skirt over her knees without being too obvious about it. “Yes, Michael’s been telling me how influential your radio show is and what terrific sources you have in the exile community. Surely you have heard things.” She made it a statement, rather than a question.

  “I have many friends, yes,” he agreed, picking up a thin cigar from his desk and running his long fingers over it in a gesture that was obscenely sensual. His eyes met hers and he shrugged. “But about this I have heard nothing.”

  “What is your good friend Paredes up to these days?” Michael inquired bluntly. Too bluntly, judging from the closed expression that suddenly came over Díaz-Nuñez’s face.

  Molly jumped in again. “He’s a fascinating man, isn’t he? I’ve met him only once, but I was struck with the aura of self-confidence about him. It is difficult these days to find men who are so committed to any cause.”