Contents Under Pressure (20 page)

The sea was shaded tones of gray, green, and silver. Black clouds stacked up on the horizon, and even though the sun was shining, a drenching downpour began to fall.

My mother had told me when I was a little girl that whenever the sun shone through the rain, it meant that the devil was beating his wife. I remembered running out into the backyard and putting my ear to the ground, but I never heard a thing.

On my way to work, I stopped at a little art supply store on Lincoln Road and bought a set of twelve jumbo color pencils, easy for little fingers to hold, with thick nontoxic lead in rainbow shades. Then I picked up half a dozen jelly donuts.

Onnie and I devoured donuts and drank coffee while Darryl examined his new art supplies. Though scarred, the place looked much neater and cleaner, even cheerful. Probably because all the men in the family were still in jail.

Darryl and his mom looked pretty good. This woman was no dummy, I learned. She had graduated from Northwestern High and had attended Miami-Dade Community College for a year-and-a-half. I could see where Darryl got his smarts. She had wanted to be a librarian, but her last job was for a firm that cleaned downtown offices at night. It turned out that I had covered the case that put Randolph, Darryl’s older brother, age nine, in Youth Hall. He had been with bigger boys who splashed lighter fluid on a dozing wino. Then one of them lit a match. The idea was not original; they had seen a similar scenario in a TV movie the night before.

The lone bright spot in recent memory had been D. Wayne Hudson. He had picked up Randolph and two other Youth Hall inmates on Friday afternoons, driving them downtown to the big public library and cultural center to pick out books and see the displays.

I did not bring up the topic during my brief visit, but as I left, Onnie said, “I still have that phone number you gave me, the one for the shelter.”

“If you do decide to do anything, keep me posted. Let me know where you two are.” She nodded, as Darryl came running with a new masterpiece he had just dashed off: a house, a sturdy tree, and what could have been a dog, or maybe a cat. “This is wonderful,” I said. “Look at these colors!”

“You can take it home with you,” he said shyly. “It’s for you.”

“I would love to hang this on my refrigerator,” I said, “but…” His eyes grew huge. “The artist has to sign it first.”

His mother guided his hand as he solemnly scrawled his name in blue in the lower right hand corner.

Now I had two men in my life, I thought as I went on to work, wondering how long either of them would stay.

It felt good to see Ryan back at his desk, working feverishly on his rafting story—it had grown into an exclusive two-parter on how he had followed the rafters’ perilous paths back to Cuba. Gretchen and managing editor John Murphy hovered behind him, reading over his shoulder and congratulating each other. Gretchen glowed, looking very much the fast-track executive in a pale Chanel-style suit with built-up Joan Crawford shoulders, as she accepted congratulations for her creativity and enterprise. The woman had emerged smelling like a rose again.

Fred Douglas, my editor on this project, thought that I should not show up at the police officers’ homes alone. He suggested that another reporter or a photographer come along. Sounded okay to me, as long as it could be Lottie.

We took her car, equipped with a two-way radio to the city desk, and a police scanner. Anybody who thought my T-Bird was loaded with the tools of my trade had never traveled in Lottie’s wheels. She goes her way, and her world goes with her. Stashed in the trunk of her company car are an assortment of cameras, lenses, and film; a tripod; a hard hat; blankets; sunscreen; insect repellent; a bright yellow rain slicker; sunglasses; rubber boots; rope; knee pads; hats; towels; plastic bags; HandiWipes; apples, oranges, granola bars, and bottled water; flares; flashlights; jumper cables; a tire repair kit; road maps; Spanish-language and Creole dictionaries; a police whistle; and an English racing seat mounted on a stake that can be driven into the ground to provide a portable perch for waiting.

Whenever big news breaks fast, Lottie arrives first. Also tucked into the trunk is a brown cardboard accordion folder full of neatly filed plans and diagrams, detailing all entrances to the city’s major buildings, hotels, the convention center, and all the runways and terminals at Miami International Airport.

We are each equipped with Q-beams, intensely powerful lights that plug into the cigarette lighter. On a job that is unpredictable, they come in handy. The late nights and bright lights of the city are bordered by unlit rural areas as dark as a coal mine at midnight. They stretch out to remote swamps, where a small plane could go down and not be found for years.

We use the Q-beams most often to find street addresses at night, holding it at arm’s length out the car window in case somebody shoots at it.

Inside Lottie’s Chrysler are packets of pictures she intends to someday deliver to people she photographed. Eventually she spills coffee on them and has to throw them out.

According to my carefully mapped-out route, we would drop in on the Blackburns first, work our way back north to the body builders in a West Dade subdivision, then Carpenter in Miami Springs, and Ted Ferrell in Miami Shores.

“How is Ryan’s story coming?” Lottie wanted to know, as we pulled out of the covered parking under the building.

“It’s not a story anymore, it’s a two-part series,” I said, buckling my seat belt. “And guess who is queen for a day in the glass-front offices?”

“Hell-all-Friday! No! It isn’t?”

“Yes! Gretchen has more lives than a cat. How many times can she land on her feet?’’

“She steps in shit, and it turns to gold,” Lottie lamented. “I thought for sure she’d get her ass fired this time.”

“No chance. The managing editor took her to lunch today. She’ll probably get a fat bonus for her brainstorm.”

“It almost would have been worth sacrificing Ryan to get her run outta this town once and for all.” Lottie looked sullen.

“You don’t mean that,” I chuckled.

“I know.” She sighed and steered around a carload of tourists, asleep at the switch when the light turned green, and accelerated up the expressway ramp.

Lottie is a great wheel person, another of the few drivers I feel comfortable with. We had both taken police combat driving courses, and our reputation for being hard on the
News’
s cars was undeserved.

We had no trouble locating our destination, with her driving and my navigating. The Blackburns lived a few blocks apart in South Miami, in one of those mazelike residential neighborhoods full of cul-de-sacs and dead ends. There seemed to be no one home at Roscoe’s place. We approached the door together, Lottie carrying only one small, unobtrusive camera so as not to spook anyone. In the driveway sat a dusty old Chevy van with a Confederate flag tag on the front. No one answered the doorbell. We gave it some time, in case he was sleeping. The lone sign of life was a liver-colored hound that bayed at us from a wire kennel at the side of the house.

From one side of the front walk we could see a modest pool in the back. It didn’t look used much; the whole place seemed to lack a woman’s touch.

Lottie was thinking the same thing. “Bet he’s divorced, or his current wife has hauled ass.” She cooed and talked soothingly to the hound dog, who stopped barking and cocked an ear to listen. He looked neglected. So did the house. I scrawled “Please call me,” on the back of one of my cards and stuck it in the door.

We hit Roland’s place five minutes later, and had better luck.

Two pickups were in the drive, along with a single-engine bass boat, an eighteen-footer with a narrow draft, the kind you could take out into the flats and swamps. The name
DURTBAG
was lettered on the prow. The trucks were blue, identical models. Both had Fraternal Order of Police symbols on their tags.

“They’re not gonna be thrilled to see us,” I warned.

“Is anybody, ever?”

“Occasionally,” I smiled smugly.

Lottie cut her eyes at me. “I knew you had somethin’ goin’ on. You can explain later.” At the door, she said, “You ring, you’re sweet.”

A woman answered. Young, blond, and heavily made up, she wore a crop top over skintight short shorts. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, if that.

She looked suspicious at finding two women on the doorstep. Her brow furrowed as she eyed us through the shadowy screen, chewing her lower lip and clutching a Budweiser can in her right hand. Country music was playing inside.

“Hi there,” I said cheerfully. “Is…”

“We don’t want any,” she said, then licked her lips and grinned at how clever she was.

“Officer Blackburn,” I said, “we’re here to see him.”

“Which one?” She worked her mouth into a pout, doubtful again.

“Both, if they’re here.” I beamed, oozing friendly confidence, and reached for the door handle. “Can we come in?”

Looking sulky, she reluctantly shoved the screen door open. I had one foot inside when a man came up behind her. “Who is it, Jaycey?” He wore jeans and a T-shirt. It was Roland, maybe Roscoe. He stopped short. I smiled and offered my hand, stepping forward into the room.

“Jesus,” he said, the color leaving his face. “Who gave you this address?”

“Hi,” I said. “You remember me, Britt Montero, the
News.
I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“How did you get this address?” he said slowly, emphasizing each word.

His mirror image, minus the T-shirt, had appeared behind him.

“What are you doing here?” his twin said.

“We’ve been trying to reach you,” I said, stepping aside, enabling Lottie to ease in next to me.

“Just one damn minute,” the shirtless one said. He turned to his brother. “Are you crazy? Letting them in here?”

“I wanna know how they got this address,” the first one said. “And I didn’t let them in.” He turned to glare at Jaycey, who took two steps back and tried to look innocent.

“You know it’s not difficult to get somebody’s address,” I said quietly. “I need to ask you some questions for a story about the death of D. Wayne Hudson. This is my friend, Lottie. She’s also with the
News.”

“Get outta my house and offa my property,” the first one said.

“You must be Roland.” Lottie smiled warmly, her voice friendly and down-home. “Howdy. I like your music. Charlie Daniels, my favorite.” She looked at me as though I was caution. “Don’t you pay her no mind; she don’t mean to be pushy. She just gives people that impression sometimes. I’m not a reporter; I just shoot pictures.”

Out the corner of my eye, I saw Jaycey’s hands fly to her hair and begin to primp.

“Out,” the first one said, his expression darkening. “Get outta my house.”

“I really think we should talk about this. Clear it all up,” I said.

“You got no right bothering us at home,” the other said belligerently. “We don’t have to talk to you. Contact us through the department.”

“But you haven’t returned my calls,” I said patiently. “This was the only way to reach you.”

The first one moved toward us, hairy arms spread, as if to sweep us out the door. “Okay, okay,” I said, giving him a hands-off sign and stepping outside. “Then it’s accurate to say that you refused to comment?”

He hesitated.

“Why don’t you come out here and talk?” I invited.

“I sure wanted to hear the rest of that record,” Lottie said hopefully.

“Sorry babe,” he said, looking at her as though he might be interested, if she wasn’t with me and didn’t work for the
News.

The shirtless one said, “Wanna take a picture, take this.” He had his hand on his zipper.

“Look,” I said, turning to the other one, “there is going to be a story. There are unanswered questions. You guys are career cops, you’ve won medals, honors. You’ve got a lot invested in the job. You deserve the chance to tell your side. All I’m trying to do is give you that chance.”

He seemed to consider it.

“If you didn’t do anything wrong, you oughta tell her,” Lottie coaxed.

“What do you mean
wrong?”
he blustered. “We…”

“Shut the hell up!” The barechested Blackburn stormed forward, chin jutting at an angry angle. “This is your brother talking!” he shouted. “Don’t say another fucking word to them!” The screen door swung shut between us. So did the solid oak door behind it. Before it slammed I said, “Give me a call, if you change your mind.”

Inside we could hear Jaycey’s high-pitched squeal. “Don’t you take it out on me! I didn’t let them in. They pushed their way inside!”

Lottie and I stood on the stoop, ejected and dejected.

“We nearly had him,” I sighed. “If only his brother hadn’t been here.”

“Twin charmers,” she said. “Double trouble. Can you tell ‘em apart?” she asked, as we trudged back to the car. The sun was dropping fast.

“I hear their wives couldn’t.”

“That must be interestin’…” she said thoughtfully. “One of ‘em must have a mole or a birthmark, someplace.”

“Let’s not even think about it.”

“I always meet up with such fascinatin’ people when I’m with you.”

“I never said this would be fun. Two down, four to go,” I said, looking at my watch. “Look at it this way. It can’t get much worse.”

I was wrong.

Machado lived near Fontainebleau Park, in west Dade.

A flashy red Firebird with custom trim looked like it was doing sixty miles an hour standing still in his driveway. A shiny Harley Low Rider Custom sat in the open garage; boys and their toys, I thought.

Before I even raised my hand to knock, the door was flung open as though someone was expected. No way to slip inside past
him.
He filled the opening, his weightlifter’s body straining against his gray sweats. Half a dozen religious medals hung from two thick gold chains. His swarthy skin was pitted by what looked like a case of terminal acne. He wasted no words on small talk.

“Who gave you this address?”

Funny how the people who are expert at getting
your
address are always so shocked when you show up at
theirs.

He looked cornered, already agitated. “I just want to talk to you,” I said, hoping to sound casual. Braced for him to slam the door, I was stunned when he shouted “I got nothing to say!” and lunged forward, rushing out past us.

Lottie and I, shoved together when he came barreling out, watched in amazement as he bolted to the Harley in the garage and kick-started the machine. It caught on the second try, and he thundered out to the street, nearly lost it at the foot of the driveway, then roared south at a high rate of speed.