Contents Under Pressure (31 page)
Read Contents Under Pressure Online
Authors: Edna Buchanan
Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Suspense, #FICTION/Suspense
Lottie met us at the box office. She had had to work that day, so she dressed at the paper and drove over. She looked great, her red hair ruly for a change, and swept up. It was one of the few times I have seen her in high heels instead of cowboy boots. She wore green velvet and long, glittery earrings that swept her freckled shoulders, and carried a dainty little evening bag.
Larry and Steve were taking us dancing at Regine’s at the Grand Bay afterwards. I wore a bright pink satin evening skirt with a big blousy white top with a wide collar and a matching jeweled belt and evening bag, courtesy of my mother’s professional discount.
Our seats were great, up front in Row D. I have always loved Gusman Hall, smack in the heart of downtown Miami. My mother saw Elvis perform there when she was a teenager in the fifties.
The place opened in 1926, when theaters were built like palaces, and it is a grand and gaudy piece of Miami history, with marble floors, gilded gates, and travertine walls. A philanthropist who had made his millions in condoms saved the place from demolition in the seventies, and converted it to a concert hall named after himself.
The interior resembles a courtyard in Seville. An archway frames the stage, stars twinkle, and clouds float across a deep blue ceiling. It was the perfect setting for
Carmen,
a story that was right up my alley, a Spanish tale of love and violence.
The audience settled down as the Prelude began, a happy, bustling tune that set a sunny scenario for the brooding action to follow.
By the time the impertinent Carmen was conning the hapless Don José into helping her escape instead of hauling her off to jail, my beeper had begun to chirp. I knew I shouldn’t have brought the darn thing. Force of habit. I caught Lottie’s warning eye, reached into my evening bag, flicked the switch to off, and left it that way.
During Carmen’s fiery gypsy song in the next act, Lottie’s beeper sounded. I was surprised she even had it with her. Our dates exchanged concerned glances, and an elegantly dressed couple in the row in front turned to give us cold stares. Lottie turned it off and made no move for a telephone. This was our night. Larry put his arm around me and I smiled, as Don José pleaded piteously with Carmen, who stamped her foot angrily and insulted him.
At intermission we strolled out to the lobby, mingled with the beautiful people, and drank champagne. Several of Miami’s ten best-dressed women, in all their finery, greeted Lottie with glad cries, as though she was an old friend. We hurried back to our seats as the lights flashed.
The musicians stamped their feet and the maestro readied his music, but the curtain was briefly delayed. The lights came back up, setting the audience abuzz as the elegantly garbed general manager of the Greater Miami Opera stepped on stage.
“A short announcement,” he said. “The police and fire department have asked us to advise members of the audience to avoid south Biscayne Boulevard when they exit this evening.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lottie, who had been whispering intimately in Steve’s ear, straighten in her seat. Her eyes looked alert and wary, like those of a startled deep woods creature.
“It seems there’s a little problem at the port,” the manager continued. “A fire out of control and the possibility of explosions due to the fuel storage tanks there.”
Lottie and I exchanged glances.
“So motorists who intended to take the MacArthur or Venetian Causeways home are advised that both bridges will remain closed, and that they should detour west to 1-95 and take 112 back east to the Tuttle Causeway. Now,” he gestured expressively, “back to Bizet’s
Carmen
.” He stepped offstage as the lights went down and the curtain rose.
Carmen contemptuously told Don José to go home. She was about to have her cards read, her fortune told. The future would not look good.
I leaned forward slightly, looking across Steve to sneak a peak at Lottie. Our eyes met in a meaningful glance.
“Excuse me. Powder room,” I whispered to Larry, who stood to let me by. People behind us murmured in annoyance.
Lottie emerged from the auditorium two minutes later, eyes sweeping the lobby for me. Elegant and ladylike we minced to the Flagler Street exit, glanced over our shoulders to be sure we were out of sight of the audience and our dates, and broke into a run.
“Where’s the car?” I panted.
“Across the street in the parking garage, first level.”
She paused at the curb to pull off her high heels. “Dang it, these dadblasted things were killing me.”
“Can you shoot color for the front page?”
“Yep, I’ve got color negative PPC film in the car. I can push it two stops in the processor.”
She tossed me the keys, and I slid into the driver’s seat of her new white company Chrysler.
“Watch out for this car, Britt. You know all the heat that came down on us about the others.”
“It wasn’t our fault”
She nodded, and slammed her door. “Larry and Steve,” she mourned, as I threw it in reverse. “They will never understand this.”
The tires whined down the curving ramp to the street.
“They weren’t our types anyway.”
“You’re right Britt. Wow! Will you look at that!” Flames were clearly visible at the port, towering into the night sky, reaching for the moon. As I turned onto Flagler, we could still hear the strains of the orchestra mingled with the music of sirens converging from all directions. An engine company honked its air horn, roaring by us on the wrong side of the road. My pulse quickened.
“Look like the county and the Beach are responding too, under the mutual aid pact,” Lottie said. She slipped off the long, glittery earrings, tossed them into the backseat, and checked her cameras. “I’ll radio the city desk and let them know we’re on it.”
“They must have put out a general alarm.” I hit the gas, trailing in the wake of an aerial truck roaring straight across the bridge to the port. “Find out how much time we have until the final.”
“Right,” she said.
I caught my own image in the rearview mirror, the flames and flashing fights reflected in my eyes, and I smiled.
“You know, Lottie, you were right. It really did me good to get out.”
I had a little help from my friends. I am grateful to Dr. Steve Nelson and Dr. Joseph H. Davis; to Ann and D. P. Hughes; to Miami’s finest: Sergeants Jerry Green and Roberson Brown, Lieutenant Robert Murphy, Major Mike Gonzalez, and Officer Lori Nadelman; to the
Miami Herald’s
library staff,
Herald
attorney Sam Terilli, and
Herald
writers: Liz Balmaseda, Arnold Markowitz, Lisa Getter, Joan Fleischman, and Fabiola Santiago; to the Rev. Garth Thompson; my sharp-eyed compadres: Marilyn Lane, Cynnie Cagney, Lloyd Hough, and Marshall Frank, and, especially, to the talented Leslie Wells, an editor you can trust.
Edna Buchanan weaves a tale about the murderous streets of Miami, and how the predator can quickly become the prey.
Miami crime reporter Britt Montero has a lot on her hands. She’s investigating a series of bizarre deaths involving sex, electrocution, and freshly poured concrete. As if that isn’t enough, there’s the long unsolved murder of a young girl that may implicate the front-runner in the governor’s race.
Pursuing a lead, Britt follows the trail of a serial rapist. Enraged by her stories, the rapist is soon the one trailing her. Tensions mount as Britt fights to uncover the truth with all the odds stacked against her.
Edna Buchanan returns with another tale of violence and murder on the streets of Miami.
A mother and child are the recent victims of a fatal hit-and-run. Miami crime reporter Britt Montero witnesses the tragedy and relentlessly pursues the story. At the same time, trouble lurks in the newsroom. A new, ambitious reporter covets Britt’s job. Britt begins to suspect that her rival’s “breaking news” stories may not be what they seem. As she investigates, Britt herself becomes the prime suspect in a shocking murder. Faced with losing more than just her job, Britt is left fighting the most desperate deadline of her life.
The Britt Montero series continues with this thrilling installment from Pulitzer Prize-winner Edna Buchanan.
When Miami crime reporter Britt Montero reports a missing teenager, she discovers that the case may be related to a string of unsolved disappearances. As Britt delves into the baffling case, an old mystery opens new wounds: she unexpectedly meets two men who knew her deceased father. Through them, Britt learns that he left a diary identifying the man who betrayed him. But the diary isn’t easily possessed; anyone who finds it seems to be marked for murder. At the height of a terrifying category five hurricane, Britt needs to face the man who betrayed her father in order to uncover more than one truth, but will her hunger for justice turn her into the next victim?
Pulitzer Prize-winner Edna Buchanan’s heroine Britt Montero once again delves into Miami’s dark side of obsession and murder.
Crime reporter Britt Montero’s dreams have been haunting her. She had to shoot a man to save her own life, and the memory of it is torturing her. Meanwhile, a major Hollywood actor strides into the newsroom—and Britt’s life—hoping to do research for the character he portrays: a secret agent undercover as a Miami crime reporter. An obsessed madwoman stalks the star, and mysterious mishaps, accidents, and deaths push Britt and the star closer together. Both are menaced by the stalker. Or is it someone else who is determined to sabotage the film and kill the star?
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