Castro Directive (5 page)

"Just a neighborhood guy with some friendly advice for a tourist."

She smiled, held out her hand. "My name's Monica."

Her hand was cool and soft. "Nick Pierce." He saw her glance past him into the mirror. Hawaiian Shirt was lumbering toward them. "You want to leave?"

Before she answered, the man moved in beside her. "Come on, babe. Let's have another drink."

Monica slipped off her stool and hooked her arm around Pierce's elbow. "We were just on our way out the door."

"Why didn't you say you were with him?" Hawaiian Shirt called after her. "Waste my fucking money."

Pierce looked back once and caught Fuego's eye. He shrugged, smiled, then pushed the door open. When they were on the sidewalk, Monica dropped Pierce's arm and laughed. "Thanks. I didn't need any more of that guy."

"Can I walk you to your hotel?"

She looked away, gazed down the street as if she hadn't heard him. "I suppose."

She glanced back, blue eyes smiling, light from the street-lamp chiseling her features. Her skin seemed soft, tanned, touchable. There was also something else he saw in her eyes, something deeper than he expected. Intelligence, he thought, but something more, something he couldn't pinpoint.

"Would you mind joining me for dinner?" she asked.

Suddenly he remembered his camera. "Not at all. But hold on a minute." He reached for the door just as it swung open and Fuego held out his camera bag.

"Forget something, amigo?"

"Thanks, Fuego. This is Monica."

He nodded to her, then glanced at Pierce. "Talk to you later," he said, and ducked back into the bar.

Pierce self-consciously adjusted the strap of his camera bag and smiled sheepishly at Monica.

Monica looked puzzled. "I thought only tourists carried cameras into bars."

"I'm full of surprises."

She laughed, a light, carefree trill. "Where are we going to eat?"

"If you like Italian, there's a good place up Washington a couple of blocks. Make their own pasta."

"Let's go."

They crossed the street and walked in silence until Monica asked where he lived; he told her it was just a few blocks away.

"It must be interesting. I mean, living here."

Pierce glanced over at her. "That's one way of putting it. It's sort of a love-hate relationship."

They veered around a man who staggered along the sidewalk. He babbled something incoherent and lunged for Pierce's arm, but missed it.

"I can see what you mean. You've got this gutsy, urban scene. Danger, violence, drugs. All that stuff. Then there's that beautiful beach and all those lovely Art Deco hotels and the art galleries and nightclubs."

"Character and characters," Pierce summarized.

He explained that after he'd lived here a few months, he realized that it was mostly outsiders who were concerned about Art Deco and preservation. The problem with "hysterical" preservation, as one of his neighbors called it, was that it dealt only with the facade. When you lived here, you saw behind the pastel exteriors. You thought about finding a parking spot, about the leaky pipes in your building that the landlord hadn't fixed, about last month's break-in down the hall. And when you saw the crack dealers and the winos, the hookers and the homeless, you wondered how many more castoffs from the mainstream would float onto the beach before the place simply caved in under the weight of hopelessness.

"But you like it enough to live here."

He shrugged. "I'm just saying it'll take more than a few coats of paint and more trendy nightclubs to make this place really livable again."

"Guess I hadn't looked at it from that perspective," she said thoughtfully.

"So why did you decide to take a trip here in mid-May?"

"I wanted to come during Christmas break, but it didn't work out. So I promised myself I'd leave as soon as classes were finished."

"Classes?"

"I teach Spanish at a small college. That's why I chose Miami. It's sort of like a Latin American country."

He looked over at her. "This is Latin America. It just happens to be part of the United States."

A couple of minutes later, they arrived at the restaurant and were led to a table. The floors were ceramic tile; the table was covered with shiny red-and-white-checked tablecloths. A few framed paintings of Venetian scenes with gondolas and gondoliers completed the typical decor.

"God, what happened to your head?" Monica asked after they were seated. "I didn't notice it before."

"Just bumped it. Wasn't looking where I was going. Looks worse than it is."

"You walk into walls very often?"

He laughed. "Not on a regular basis."

Their waiter arrived, and when it was obvious that his English skills were minimal, Monica addressed him in Spanish. Pierce was impressed with her fluency and guessed she'd lived in a Latin country.

"You're right, this is Latin America," she said when the waiter walked off. "I've never ordered spaghetti in Spanish anywhere else in the United States."

"I even know a Chinese restaurant where you can practice your Spanish."

"Really?"

"Yeah, the Chinese owner and his family are from Peru."

"Oh, that's over in the Grove, right?"

Pierce's smile vanished. "You know the place?"

Monica looked confused, disoriented, something, but only for a moment. "Yeah, I spent a few days in Coconut Grove a couple of years ago. I remember eating there. The waiter told me he was from Peru."

Pierce sipped his water. "You come down here often?"

"Just twice. That's all."

"You come by yourself?"

"I was coming with a friend, another teacher, but she canceled out at the last minute."

"Where'd you learn your Spanish?" he asked.

"Jeez, you got a lot of questions. I spent a couple of summers in Guatemala and Mexico. Where'd you learn yours?"

"I've traveled quite a bit in Latin America. In fact, I used to own a travel agency and lead tour groups."

"Sounds interesting."

"To a point. I'd never go on a tour myself," he grinned. "It's not my idea of what travel is about."

She appraised him for a long moment, a slight smile on her lips. "I think most Americans are wary about traveling in Latin America."

"Of course they are."

She gave him a puzzled look. "So why did you lead trips there?"

"The unknown factor, I guess. You never know what to expect, even on a guided tour. In Bogota, for instance, sometimes you check your luggage at the airport, then instead of boarding the plane you end up in a basement, and there's your luggage going around the carousel as if you'd just arrived. But you're trying to leave."

"Why do they do that?"

"Native customs," he said dryly. "To search for drugs."

"I bet your clients loved that kind of treatment."

"I tried to instill in them the idea that it was all part of the adventure. I'd warn them in advance that on this tour, they would be travelers, not tourists."

She laughed. "I guess tonight I feel more like a traveler than a tourist."

I bet you do, Pierce thought. A half-formed idea about Monica was slowly taking shape in the back of his mind; a sculpture being carved from stone.

"You still lead tours?" she asked a while later, after their dinners had arrived.

"I sold my travel agency a few years ago, started a new profession."

While they ate, Monica asked him one question after another about his detective work. She seemed fascinated, even though he emphatically told her the work usually wasn't exciting, or even interesting.

"I never realized that auto manufacturers hired detectives," she said. "What would you do if you found out the car company was at fault?"

"Then my job would be to limit the damage as much as possible. You look at the claimant's driving record, find out whether he or she ever sued anyone before—anything that might bring about some doubts in the minds of the jurors."

Monica swallowed a mouthful of spaghetti. "Isn't that kind of like working for the wrong side?"

"Even confessed murderers deserve defense attorneys. It's sort of the same thing."

"How did you get involved with car manufacturers?"

"My old college roommate from Columbia University grew up to be rich and influential. He helped me out. I'm sure you've heard of him. Raymond Andrews."

"You're kidding. The movie producer?"

Pierce didn't think of Andrews as a movie producer, although he certainly was one. "Yeah, that among other things. He's got a lot of connections."

She looked impressed. "Are you two good friends? I mean, can you call him up and say, 'Hey, Ray, let's do lunch,' or whatever?"

Pierce was tempted to say Yeah, sure, he and Andrews were buddies. Instead, he told her the truth. "Not really. Especially not lately. You see, I took a consumer case against a car manufacturer. Word got around, and all the car companies dropped me. I'm sure Ray knows about it. He probably thinks I'm an idiot."

Monica nodded. "That's too bad you lost the business. But you're not an idiot and I wouldn't worry about what Ray thinks."

After they finished dinner, Pierce walked Monica to the Cardoza. She stopped outside the lobby and turned to him. The neon light from the hotel sign accented her high cheekbones and her long, graceful neck. Her body was angular, but feminine. Appealingly so, he thought. Her blue eyes were inquiring, but there was also a wariness about her.

"Thanks for going to dinner with me. I hate eating alone." As she spoke, she nervously fiddled with the crystal pendant that hung from a gold chain about her neck.

"My pleasure. Is that quartz?"

"Rose quartz. You like it?"

"I noticed it at dinner. It's nice."

"You believe in crystal power, Nick?"

He shrugged. "It seems to keep my watch running on time, but I'm still usually late."

"Did you know that if you send out loving vibrations to a crystal, it will respond in kind, enhancing your love?" Pierce reached out, stroked the crystal, touching her hand and neck as he did. "I didn't know that."

Monica smiled, took a step back. "I better go. Thanks again. It was nice."

"Good night."

Pierce watched her cross the lobby and head for the elevator. As soon as the elevator door closed behind her, he crossed to the beach side of Ocean Drive. He took in a deep breath of night air, gazed at the moonlight reflecting off the Atlantic.

After a moment, he leaned against a palm tree, opened his camera bag. He kept his eye on the hotel as he fixed his zoom lens onto the camera body, then put it away. He lowered the bag to the ground and turned his full attention to the hotel. He didn't have to wait long. A couple of minutes later, he saw Monica retrace her steps across the lobby and leave. He wasn't surprised.

Her story didn't ring true to him. He'd realized it when she'd slipped up and said she knew that the Chinese restaurant he'd mentioned was in the Grove. The place had been in Little Havana for years, and had reopened in the Grove only a couple of months ago. He didn't have any idea why she would lie to him, but now he was curious. He wanted to know who she was.

She headed away from the beach, walking at a swift pace. Pierce trailed well behind her, walking on the opposite side of the street. It was still before midnight; plenty of cars and people were around to make it easy for him to remain inconspicuous. He had an idea where she would lead him, and he was right. When she neared the Jack of Clubs, she approached a white VW Cabriolet, unlocked the door, and slid behind the wheel.

Pierce hurried ahead another hundred feet, unlatching the strap on his camera bag as he ran. He ducked inside a doorway a half a block away from the car. Dropping down on one knee, he took out his camera and pulled out the zoom lens to its full extent.

As the car started and the lights came on, he focused on the license plate. He lowered the camera and watched the car pull away. He wouldn't have any trouble remembering what he'd read. Monica had a personalized license plate: MAYA-2.

I
n the dream, the crystal skull rested in the middle of a table. He was seated on one side of it, Monica on the other. She was dressed like a gypsy and stared intently into the skull, seeking to divine something. The jaws of the skull were moving, speaking. What it said was important, but Pierce couldn't quite hear, couldn't understand.

Suddenly Monica's hand and arm were sliding into the skull's mouth; it was devouring her. He grabbed her other arm and pulled. But the mouth kept swallowing her, and suddenly the jaws clamped onto his own hand and he was being dragged down after her.

The peal of the phone punctured the dream; the reality hissed out of it and he rolled over, blinking hard against the light. He patted the table until he found the receiver and answered in a gravelly voice.