Love Kills (3 page)

“I read a lot,” I said testily.

“I'm not criticizing. It's part of your girlish charm.” She ordered another rum drink and continued bringing me up to speed.

“More construction workers are getting killed on the job than all the cops, firemen, cabdrivers, and convenience-store clerks put together. Three men drowned in tons of hot quick-drying cement, buried alive at a luxury high-rise oceanfront site. They were pouring concrete on the roof when a frame broke. It buried the workers on the floor below and hardened before anybody could pull 'em out.”

I hate when people go to work in the morning and never come home. It's always painful to write about a man or a woman who meets a violent sudden end only because he or she is at work—which, at that moment, is the wrong place at the wrong time. It's lousy to die trying to earn an honest living and care for your family.

“Who were they?”

“Two Haitians and a Mexican,” she said. “Came to join the boom, find their piece of the dream, and feed their folks back home. The apartment prices on that condo project start at a million five. They died building a place they could never live in, or even be welcome at, except maybe as busboys in its rooftop restaurant.”

“They'd have lived longer busing tables,” I said.

“Except as busboys they'd have no place to live, 'cause all the affordable housing is being torn down or converted to pricey condos…. We're living in interesting times, Britt. I feel like a character in a horror flick. Floods, fires, monsters crawling out of the swamp and eating people alive, big machines crashing, burning, and exploding, men buried in quick-drying cement. But it's no movie. It's real life.”

Our conversation seemed surreal in this serene setting beneath a crescent moon.

“And you suggest I go back there? Why?”

“'Cause it's a great news town, Britt, and you're a news junkie, just like me. Reporting is what you do best. You and Miami are made for each other.”

I knew she was right. “How
are
things at the word factory?” I finally asked.

“Worse since the anthrax scare.” She sighed. “Our incoming mail is all diverted to an off-site mail room, where it's opened by an eighty-year-old man hired by security.”

“Why him?” I wondered aloud. “Is he considered expendable? Is he an old snoop who loves reading other people's mail, or is he a wild and crazy octogenarian who lives and breathes for danger?” I wistfully recalled the letters that arrived daily at my desk, penned by wackos, gadflies, indignant readers, eager tipsters, jailed felons, and the guy with the foot fetish.

“Maybe he works cheap.” She shrugged. “All I know is that he wears gloves and a surgical mask and is shaky with the scissors. It's hell, Britt. The mail arrives in pieces with crucial parts missing or mixed up with bits of somebody's else letter. Reading it is like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle. Everybody's complaining.”

But she had good news too.

The Heat won the championship and thousands of crazed Miamians descended on downtown. Confetti cannons blasted. Fans partied hard. They did not attack one another or the cops. Nobody got hurt or went to jail. Hard to imagine.

And the news about our friend Ryan Battle, the feature writer who labors at the desk behind mine, was excellent. His leukemia was still in remission.

“'Member Nell Hunter, that new reporter, the cute little one from Long Island?”

“The blonde?”

“That's her. Broke Ryan's heart.”

“Not again,” I lamented.

“No sweat, he bounced back,” she said. “Now he's hot for an intern, purty little thing from Kansas City. Saw them canoodling at the Eighteen Hundred Club the other night.

“Nell may be cute as a button, but she's a certified bitch. Wrote a story that burned Sam Stone, the Cold Case Squad detective. Included all kinds of personal stuff about his dead parents and ambushed his elderly grandmother. I felt bad for 'im. He was real upset. No surprise there. The desk sent Nell out to cover a story on your beat a couple weeks ago.”

“Oh?” I didn't think I'd care, so the hot surge of resentment surprised me. “How'd she do?”

Lottie shook her head. “Not too well. The first Miami cop she met asked, ‘Where's Britt?' Nell didn't take that kindly. Then she meets the Cold Case sergeant, Craig Burch. As he's answering her questions, he calls 'er
Hon.

“‘I am
not
your honey,' she says, and blasts him in front of his detectives.”

“Is she crazy?”

“Appears to be,” Lottie said. “Burch is good people. Most likely he said it 'cause he couldn't remember her name. She sure showed her ass. They showed her the door. So she beefed to their lieutenant.” She paused for effect.

“She went to K. C. Riley?”

Lottie nodded slyly.

“Why on
earth
would she do that?”

Lottie rolled her eyes and looked innocent.

“Lottie! You didn't!” I put down my dessert fork and stared accusingly.

She shrugged and confessed. “Nell called me, mad as a red-assed dog, bitchin' about
sexist pigs.
Wanted my advice. How would Britt Montero have handled it? I just tried to help.”

“Oh, sure, you and Mother Teresa.”

“I told her you would've marched back into that cop shop straight into the office of their lieutenant—who, of course, just happens to be a sister,” Lottie said sweetly. “You would've demanded that those detectives be reprimanded and ordered to apologize—and to cooperate fully and respectfully with her in the future.” She blinked coquettishly. “Isn't that what you would've done?”

“She didn't!” I whispered.

“She did, bless her heart.”

I pressed my napkin to my mouth but failed to suppress the laughter. “You know how obnoxious K.C. can be,” I gasped, when finally able to speak. “You know how ferociously she backs up her detectives. Is Nell still alive?”

“Alive but not well. K.C. got all red in the face, cussed Nell out, and had two patrolmen escort her out of the building. The front desk sergeant was told to bar Nell from the station.” Lottie gazed out at the soft palm-shaded twilight, shaking her head sadly. “Too bad it happened to be windy and raining real hard, what with her car parked such a distance away and all. Poor thing.”

“You are the worst.” I laughed aloud.

“Nell showed up back in the newsroom, hair all plastered down, teary-eyed and totally pissed. Looked like a drowned rat. You could see her nipples right through that little blouse she wears. Said she won't go back there, ever. Nobody covers the police beat now, Britt, at least not like you did.”

“How is K. C. Riley?” I asked quietly.

“Seems to be coping. Better than you are, I guess. Feisty as ever. Fights the good fight every day. Heard she went to hostage negotiation school, passed at the top.”

“I guess it's easier for someone like her. She's cold,” I said.

“You shouldn't hate her 'cause you both wanted the same man. She had him first, as I recall. And you have a lot more than that in common.”

I grimaced, shook my head in disbelief, and changed the subject. “Anyone else ever ask about me?”

“Nope,” she said shortly. “You know what a short memory Miami has.”

My misery must have shown.

“I'm kidding.” Lottie leaned forward, her honest brown eyes sympathetic. “Every day. Especially lately. Your ears must have been burning all last week.”

“Is that so?”

“Yup. Another reason to come home, Britt: The Cold Case Squad is looking for you. I said I didn't know where you were. They want to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Some homicide.”

“Which one?” I asked, suddenly interested.

“Wouldn't say. But I get the impression they think you're somehow involved.”

“What sort of case?” I scrolled my memory bank for possibilities and came up blank. “When did it happen? Did they mention the victim?”

She shook her head. “You know how we can usually finesse information out of Burch, Nazario, Stone—even Joe Corso if you play 'im right. But they're stonewalling till they talk to you.”

I frowned.

She looked pleased when I agreed to go back to Miami with her. “I didn't aim to push you,” she said. “Sure you're all right with it?”

I nodded. I'd known my exile was nearing its end before she arrived.

“I'm broke,” I confessed. “Think I'll have any trouble getting my old job back?”

“No way.”

It was the end of one chapter and the beginning of a whole new one.

We shot the mystery camera's last three frames on the beach at dawn.

A shell collector snapped the last one of us together, with our surfboards. She was an elderly woman, her skin turned to parchment beneath a big straw hat, and the pockets of her baggy shorts stuffed with long-spined stars, baby's ear moons, and other jewels from the deep. Then we hurried back to the cottage to gulp tea, eat some fruit, and pack.

Lottie was due to return to work, and if I didn't join her I'd soon be living under a bridge. So we wasted no time. By two o'clock that afternoon our dusty taxicab was bouncing along a rut-filled road to the far side of the island to catch the three o'clock seaplane, one of three flights a week.

The tiny plane skimmed blue-green waves for heart-stopping moments, startling dolphins and pelicans, then swooped us into a brilliant sky under clouds that pierced the cavernous lazuline blue like stalagmites.

The pilot, a grizzled Vietnam veteran, said he hadn't been back to the States in years. He had done mountain rescues in the Andes and then worked for a time as a seagoing repo man, stealing boats from deadbeat owners behind in their payments. The money was good but he wearied of being chased, shot at, and cursed. “Had enough of that in Nam and then after we came home.”

We spent a few hours in Nassau, speed-shopped the straw market for souvenirs, and then went on to Miami aboard a plane packed with the same fellow travelers who seem to be on every flight: Howling Baby, Sneezing Senior, Coughing Man, and Overweight Woman Drenched in Noxious Perfume.

Coming home, drinking in Miami from the sky, never fails to take my breath away, even though the city I love is gone now, replaced by a swollen, overbuilt metropolis, where the only remaining small patches of green visible from the air are cemeteries and sports stadiums. Endless rivers of traffic crept along every clogged artery. The surf snaked along the shoreline like a green river, while sky and sea blended seamlessly at the horizon.

Homesick, heartsick, a little bit nauseous, I stepped back into messy reality, my heart pounding with anticipation.

As we cleared customs, Lottie and I wondered aloud if we would ever identify the owners of the lost camera. I had left my number with several locals on the island, offering to send the photos should the owner show up.

Lottie drove me home in the company car she'd left at the airport. Culture shock overwhelmed me: traffic noise, heat, and humidity exacerbated by the scorching pavement and miles of concrete barriers that block sea breezes. Construction cranes towered at every turn. Cranes have become the new state bird, I thought.

Home, my little garden apartment—one of twelve in two rows facing each other across a tree-shaded lawn guarded by pink hibiscus hedges—had not changed.

I'd left my dog Bitsy, my cat Billy Boots, and my house keys with Helen Goldstein, my landlady. Leaving my four-footed companions in familiar surroundings with someone they loved and I trusted left me feeling far less guilt. At eighty-two, married sixty-three years, Helen Goldstein is one of the youngest people I know.

Welcoming aromas wafted from her kitchen as she threw open the door. There was flour on her hands and cheeks, and she wore an apron emblazoned with the words
HARDLY ANYBODY GOT SICK LAST TIME I COOKED

She had been baking rugelach, kugel, and kichel, little cookies with a sprinkling of sugar. Our surprise arrival delighted her. The hugs, happy laughter, and Bitsy's barking brought her husband, Hy, rushing in from the living room where he had been watching the TV news.

Bitsy, the little dog I inherited from a policewoman killed in the riots, had not forgotten me. Billy Boots, my black-and-white tuxedo cat, perched high on the embroidered back of an armchair, sneering disdainfully at the dog's hysterical welcome. Tail twitching, the cat stared straight through me, as though I were an imperfect stranger intruding on his turf. He arched his neck, displaying a bright flowered collar and a silver bell that were new to me. Well fed and well groomed, both animals looked cleaner and shinier than on my watch, clear evidence that I couldn't even properly nurture a cat and a small mop of a dog. What would Francie, who'd smuggled Bitsy into her patrol car on the midnight shift, think, had she only survived that deadly moment in time?

Mrs. Goldstein held me at arm's length, gave me a complete once-over from head to toe, spun me around, did it again, and delightedly announced that I looked wonderful. “Are you eating enough?” she demanded, before severely scolding me. “You couldn't have called first?” She would have prepared a meal.

“That's why I didn't. You'd fuss. You've done enough.”

I turned to hug Mrs. G again, with Bitsy, now trembling, panting, and drooling, in my arms. My clumsy move brought us too close to the chairback and Billy took two swift swipes, just missing the little dog's nose.

“Billy, you know better!”

The cat ignored me, leaped lightly to the floor, closed his eyes, and rubbed against Mrs. Goldstein's ankles, purring loudly.

Despite my pleas of exhaustion and a long list of chores to be done, my landlady insisted we sit, to nosh on her fresh-baked goods and drink a glass of tea. Afterward, we all trooped across the courtyard to my apartment. Bitsy bounded ahead, to lead the way, while Billy followed at a discreet distance, as though it were mere coincidence that we all happened to be strolling in the same direction.

The Goldsteins exchanged a conspiratorial glance as I inserted my key, and when I opened the door he hit the light switch with a flourish. Both beamed at my gasp. Hy Goldstein had painted my apartment in my absence: bed and bath the palest shade of pink, like dawn's faint blush, and the kitchen in sunshine yellow with cream trim and turquoise accents.

I'd come home to a lighter, brighter, freshly painted world. Even my furniture had been repaired and rearranged, and somehow they'd managed to keep my window herb garden alive and thriving.

They hoped it would lift my spirits, they said. It did, despite my tears.

Lottie and I made a quick run for essentials to the big new Publix supermarket on the bay before she left. After trying to start my T-Bird without success, I called AAA to recharge the battery. They took more than an hour to arrive. The driver jump-started the car but warned me to take it to a garage for a long, slow charge or a new battery.

I didn't call my mother. All I hungered for now was sleep, in my own bed, and this time I slept like the dead, blessedly dreamless, waking at dawn, disoriented for only a moment. How I love my apartment! What a comfort to wake with Bitsy curled up at my feet and Billy's big green eyes gazing into mine. Purring loudly, he had obviously forgiven me my absence. I was home.

For the first time in months, I applied lipstick, eyebrow pencil, and a little mascara, then donned a navy blue skirt and a white blouse that showed off my tan. I pored over the Goldsteins' morning newspaper, then called to restart my home delivery. I fortified myself with a cup of Cuban coffee before making the call I dreaded, to my friend Onnie in the
Miami News
library. Slowly I punched the familiar numbers.

It felt awkward, but I knew there were those in the newsroom who would stare and whisper when they first saw us together. I had to warn her that I was back.

We both wept.

“Welcome home, Britt,” Onnie finally said, her voice solemn. “Thanks for the heads-up. I've missed you. Darryl will be so excited. He asks for you every day.”

My next call was to Fred Douglas, city editor at the
News.
He didn't sound surprised when I asked to see him. Lottie must have spilled the news.

The T-Bird sprang to life at once, a good omen. The familiar drive west across the causeway and the sight of the
News
building on Biscayne Bay were a comfort. For most of my adult life, that behemoth has been my rock and my sole security. A strange car was parked in my space beneath the building, so I left the T-Bird in visitors' parking across the street. My
Miami News
ID still gained me entry; I bustled by a new security guard without a challenge. So far, so good.

Ryan rushed from his desk for a hug moments after I stepped off the elevator and into the newsroom. I felt the stares, heard the murmurs, and the voices calling my name from other desks. Fred was in his small glass-front office.

“Look at you, Montero!” he boomed. “Must have been quite a vacation.”

I was tanner than I'd ever been, my hair longer and sun-streaked. “Yep,” I said jauntily. “But now it's back to the salt mine. I hope.”

My stomach did a free fall as he paused to survey me thoughtfully. I had left suddenly, uncertain about my plans, and Fred had warned he couldn't guarantee me a job if and when I returned.

“When do you want to start?”

I shrugged casually, weak with relief. “This afternoon?”

He smiled. Fred is a rarity in the business, smart and creative, a tough editor with a heart.

“Do we renegotiate salary?” I asked brightly.

“Don't push your luck, Montero. I'll probably catch heat for this as it is. The budget's tight and we're in a hiring freeze.”

“So it's back to my old beat?”

He gazed past me, out his picture window toward the cranes punctuating Miami Beach's pastel skyline. “I'm thinking of moving Santiago off the City Hall beat and sending you in there.”

My heart hit the floor. I had covered city politics briefly, early in my career. My whole head, including my teeth, would ache as day-long city commission meetings stretched into evening and the early morning hours, as our erratic and volatile city fathers insulted, threatened, and occasionally threw punches at lobbyists, cops, irate taxpayers, city employees, and one another.

“That a problem?” Fred's eyes took on an edgy, questioning glint.

I shrugged. “I liked the police beat. Sort of made it my own. I did a good job.”

His lips tightened. “There's no lack of crime at City Hall,” he said tersely. “A helluva lot of One-A stories come out of Dinner Key. Graft, greed, and corruption, malfeasance, misfeasance, and nonfeasance, politicians doing perp walks—everything from low comedy to Greek tragedy wrapped up on one beat. What more could a reporter want?”

He was right. A city commissioner, a former war hero driven to the brink by personal demons and political and legal problems, had fired a fatal bullet into his own head in the newspaper's lobby last year.

How inflexible was Fred, I wondered. I didn't want to argue myself out of a job, but pushed anyway. “I was really good on the police beat,” I repeated stubbornly. “From what I hear, nobody's really covering the cops.” I glanced meaningfully at the newspapers stacked on his desk. “Who knows what stories we've missed?”

“The competition did beat us badly on the last few big cop-shop stories.” He leaned back in his chair, cracked his knuckles, and contemplated the ceiling.

“It's where I would do you the most good.”

He remained reluctant. “City Hall is a gold mine for an enterprising reporter who knows how to dig,” he said persuasively. “Change is healthy. Show 'em how it's done, Montero. I think it's best, under the circumstances.”

“I've had enough change.” Did he detect the quaver in my voice? I hated to sound pathetic. “I need to go back to something familiar for a while.”

“Sure you can handle it?” The concern in his eyes looked fatherly.

“Absolutely. No sweat,” I said, wondering in sudden panic if I could. Was he right?

Now that I had doubts, his seemed to lessen. “Have it your way, Montero, if you feel that strongly. But at the first sign it isn't working, come to me. Got that?”

“Got it.” I stood to go, before he, or others, could change his mind.

“Sure you don't need more time to settle in?”

I shook my head, my hand on the doorknob.

“Your buddy Lieutenant Riley from the Cold Case Squad has called, looking for you.”

“I heard.”

“What's that about?”

I hitched my shoulders and shook my head again, eager to bolt while I was ahead. “No clue.”

“Should Mark Seybold talk to her first?”

I didn't think the paper's ferocious and fearless in-house attorney should be involved so soon. “Let me check, see what's up. It may be nothing. I'll let you know. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Looks like you and Lottie were a blast on the beach.” Fred's trademark bow tie bobbed as he chuckled. “Didn't know you were a surfer girl.”

I blinked in surprise.

“The picture on the bulletin board.”

Gretchen, the editor from hell, smirked as I left his office. Her pinstriped navy business suit with a pale blue Brooks Brothers shirt projected the bright and impeccable image of a rising young news executive, totally masking her ambitious mean-spirited incompetence.

I ignored her and beelined for the bulletin board. Lottie and I were the centerpiece, framed by our surfboards, heads tilted together, our hair, haloed by the rising sun, streaming like banners in the ocean breeze. Newsroom habitués had already posted several humorous and not too flattering captions, comments, and critiques.