Dead Last (37 page)

Monday, August 2

Daniela Diamond Dollimore, Actress with a Caring Heart

By April Moss

To her television fans Ms. Dollimore was a sex kitten with lethal skills, known by her stage name, Dee Dee, but to her many friends in local aid organizations she was Danni, a tireless worker and a young woman with a warm and caring heart.

On July 31, Danni Dollimore, 27, a familiar and welcoming face in the food banks and halfway houses of Miami’s inner city, drowned in a boating accident just south of Key Biscayne. “We were all shocked and heartbroken over Danni’s death. Her smile, her compassionate spirit were something special,” said Flora Marcus, director of Prayer House, the food bank and halfway house where Danni volunteered long hours.

“Diamond loved Spring Garden, the historic neighborhood along the north banks of the Miami River,” said Ruth Wertalka, a long-time aid worker who got to know Danni at Prayer House. “It’s a pretty area. Her boyfriend lived there, and Danni started hanging out there. But one day when she was out exploring the area, she strayed into Overtown and she was just shocked to find that a few blocks from the charming district she knew and enjoyed is an impoverished and crime-ridden ghetto.”

Pained by the hopelessness she saw in those first encounters in one of Miami’s toughest neighborhoods, Danni started looking for a way to give whatever assistance she could. How exactly she settled on Prayer House is not known, but everyone who met her there was thankful it happened. “I don’t want to lay it on too thick,” said Wertalka, “but Danni had an eye-opening conversion when she first bumped into Overtown, and it stirred her up like nothing ever had. She’d spent all those years as an actress, but she said it never gave her any real pleasure or satisfaction. Overnight she found her greatest joy came from feeding the hungry and giving hope and cheer to the hopeless.”

“All that TV foolishness, that prancing and primping, was just an act,” said Flora Marcus. “She left that nonsense behind when she came down here to her secret world. No makeup, jewelry or skimpy skirts, just jeans, baggy T-shirt and a great big smile for all our disenfranchised clients. Nobody knew she was a TV star. She just worked the chow line and slung the mop like everybody else. Every Saturday, regular as clockwork, she arrived in a Yellow Cab because she didn’t want nobody around here seeing her driving a fancy car. Last thing she wanted was to call attention to herself, just wanted to fit in with all the other volunteers.” On many Saturday nights when others in her profession were partying all night at South Beach clubs, Danni Dollimore would find a vacant cot in an out-of-the-way corner, and spend the night at Prayer House so she could be up early and get back to work.

Starting in April of this year, when Danni’s television chores increased, she found she could only steal away for a weekend now and then at Prayer House. According to Marcus, this change in schedule upset her, but Danni coped. “She’d get here at the crack of dawn, turn her cell phone off, and she’d stay till the very last minute when she had to get back to her high-flying life. Danni told us she felt like she’d finally found her purpose in the world. She had an infectious smile. People down here loved that girl. She had a beautiful soul.”

Born in Miami Beach, Daniela Diamond Dollimore seemed destined for a show business career. Her father, Gusman Dollimore, directed short films and independent TV specials for years before he took charge of the
Miami Ops
police drama in which his daughter starred. Danni’s mother, Betty Parsons, was also a professional actress whose credits include character roles in action films of the 70s. Ms. Parsons, now a Realtor living in Daytona Beach, discovered early that her daughter had a tender heart. “She didn’t just bring home the usual stray dogs and cats, Danni found snakes and iguanas, and more than once she brought home injured possums. She’d take them into her bed, hide them under her covers and I’d hear her in there talking to them, trying to console these smelly creatures. She just hated to see anything suffer.”

Home-schooled in both elementary and high school, Danni was a loner with limited exposure to other children. One of her rare friends from that time, Mitchell Masur, remembers her as a terribly shy girl. “She barely said a word when we saw each other on the sidewalk. She was a mumbler. But every once in a while I’d get a glimpse of the girl inside. Funny and kind of wild. Back then she had a pair of Rollerblades and the two of us would go out skating for hours, Danni just flying along, never saying a word with a huge smile on her face.”

“Like an ice pick in the heart,” said Bertie Mae Fields, one of the regulars at Prayer House. “That’s how I feel, losing Danni. Isn’t no fairness in the world if a girl as good as that, with all those great years ahead of her, can just up and die for no good reason. When she wasn’t working the food line or scrubbing pots and pans, she was trying to teach me to read. She’d bring me books every weekend. I loved that sweet young woman.”

A private memorial service will take place at the Spring Garden private home of a friend on Monday evening, August 2. In lieu of flowers donations to Prayer House will be gladly accepted.

THIRTY

THORN FOUND THE MORNING PAPER
on the front sidewalk and took it back to the porch, where he read it with Boxley sitting erect beside him. When he’d finished the obituary, Thorn stared out at the quiet street.

The sky was leaden and low and in the east the sunrise was muffled to a vague pink. The air smelled tense and electric from an incoming storm. Overhead in the lowering sky two parrots groused at each other as they made their morning rounds. The Siamese padded up the stairs, eased in beside Boxley, and rubbed its cheeks against the dog’s forelegs.

Thorn folded the paper in half and read the obituary again. Boxley turned his head to the side and settled his muzzle on Thorn’s left thigh. On the second pass, he found himself admiring April’s quiet way of disappearing while she brought to life a woman she’d clearly misjudged. Smoothly moving from quote to quote, words of people who’d known her best, building a compact portrait of a wounded child who found a way to hide in public behind the pose of a brainless nymphet.

Thorn and the dog and cat were still standing guard on the porch when April came to the front door and stepped outside. She had on dark brown shorts and a simple cream top with her hair pinned up. Her eyes moved languidly to his, dulled by the sleep she’d apparently missed.

“Coffee?”

“In a minute.” Thorn patted the rocker beside him, and after a moment’s hesitation, April came out and sat down.

“You’re angry at me.”

“Not mad, no.”

“Yesterday, Flora Marcus, the director of Prayer House, called my office at the paper and left a message. She saw on TV that Dee Dee drowned and wanted to be sure someone knew about her secret life, and that she got credit for her good works. I wouldn’t have discovered any of that if Flora hadn’t bothered.”

“Spring Garden, April, ice pick.”

She nodded.

“I thought the ice pick was clever,” she said with a weary smile. “Much better than a ‘bullet to the heart.’”

“You didn’t make that up. She actually said those words?”

“I don’t make things up.”

Thorn shook his head.

“At the
Herald
yesterday, I went over all the other obituaries for the last five weeks. I wanted to see how it could possibly be true, third word, every third paragraph. It was uncanny, some kind of terrible coincidence that those kinds of words landed in those spots. Not every obituary I wrote during the time fit the formula, there were lots of them with words that wouldn’t work, but the few he’s acted on are pretty clear. Knife, gun, spear.”

“Why’d you do it, April? You made yourself the target.”

“What other choice was there?”

“Because you feel guilty? Because of what the news people said, that accomplice bullshit?”

“Do you want coffee? I know I do.”

She rose and walked to the screen door, then stopped and stared off at the distance.

Thunder rumbled far out at sea where the rosy gray dawn was darkening as though whoever was in charge of such things had changed his mind about lighting up another day. Thorn watched as the first pink hint of sunrise disappeared into the thick clouds until only charcoals and dark blues churned along the horizon. Around them the air was growing still and heavy.

“Garvey ordered pancakes for breakfast. Can I make you some?”

“You two are going to have to move somewhere until this is over.”

“She won’t stand for that, and neither will I.”

“It’s too risky, April.”

“Pancakes? Or eggs? Carbs or protein, what’ll it be?”

After the silent breakfast was done, Thorn went back outside to the porch and fumbled with Buddha’s phone until he located Sheffield’s cell number in her directory.

Thorn left a message on his voice mail and a minute later, “Hey Jude” was vibrating in his hand.

“You read the paper?”

“I read it,” Frank said. “What is she, crazy?”

“She feels responsible.”

“Look, they put me on administrative leave,” Frank said. “Pending the director’s decision, I’m off the streets, locked out of my office; they took my weapon, and if I’m not mistaken I’m also under surveillance.”

“They’re watching you? Why?”

“It’s Mankowski’s doing. Humiliate me, show me who’s boss.”

“You were wrong about Dee Dee.”

“I was.”

“We could use you over here for the next few days.”

Frank was silent.

“You there?”

“I told Mankowski about the newspaper thing, three down, three in. And just like I thought, she didn’t buy it. I laid out the whole situation, the Vibram shoes, the pinking shears, showed her the transcripts from the interrogations, the security videos, the whole deal. She blew it off, all of it. She’s starting from scratch, won’t even look at my notes. Says everything I’ve done is tainted.”

“I understand.”

“But I’d say fuck ’em and be over there right now, except some guys arrived this morning and cranked up the bulldozers and a line of dump trucks just pulled in. Some kind of bullshit legal papers came in the mail, but I was so busy chasing around town I haven’t opened an envelope in days.

“Seems I missed a court date, so the city gave themselves legal authority to demolish the motel and sent over ten badasses to do the dirty work. These hombres don’t speak English and I’ve used up all the Spanish I know. So it’s only because I’m standing here in front of the place with a shovel in my hands that the Silver Sands isn’t a pile of rubble at the moment.”

“Take care of your business, Frank. I can handle this.”

“The fucker won’t come till Saturday. By then I’ll have this mess fixed, and I’ll be there.”

“If he stays on schedule, yeah. Saturday.”

“You have reason to think otherwise?”

“He came after Buddha late Friday, so maybe he’s not fussy about Saturday.”

“I might be able to get over there later today if I can resolve this.”

“It doesn’t matter, Frank. Save your place.”

“What about Sugarman? He’d back you up.”

“He’s hiking the Grand Canyon with his daughters. Won’t be back till Sunday.”

“You lied about packing heat, didn’t you? You got Hilton’s handgun.”

“Only two rounds left. But, yeah, I got it.”

“Well, if I were you I’d get in your car right now, and go stock up on ammunition.”

“Good luck with the bulldozers.”

Frank sighed.

“Good luck with the ice pick.”

The rain blew through, leaving behind a sparkle in the grass and so much moisture in the air that every solid thing turned blurry.

Thorn went up to the apartment and showered and dressed. Today the alligator on his chest was orange, the shirt blue. He tucked Buddha’s .38 into the waistband of his jeans, leaving his shirttail out, then retrieved the Sports Craze bag, dumped the contents on the bed, and chose one of the two baseballs.

He spent a while pitching the ball to Boxley. It took the dog three throws to grasp the concept of retrieving and giving it up to Thorn. But once he had the hang of it, he didn’t want to stop.

Thorn stayed out in the wide lawn tossing the ball until he was drenched with sweat, but if anybody was watching, if anybody was considering using an ice pick on someone in this house, they should be aware they’d have to come through him and a Doberman first.

At noon April called out to tell him there were sandwiches and iced tea in the dining room if he cared to come inside.

He washed up in the guest bath in April’s study, and was heading back to the foyer when his gaze ticked across the shelves of books. He halted and stared up at the high school yearbooks that were stored on the top shelf.

There were four of them from freshman to senior year. He started with the earliest and flipped through the pages until he found the group pictures of the sports teams. He didn’t spot his two sons on the football team or the soccer team or the tennis team. And they weren’t anywhere in the hardy gang of young men who played baseball that year.

He was about to set the book aside when he noticed a familiar face in the back row of the junior varsity baseball team, a gangly boy taller than his peers, with unkempt hair and a face peppered by acne. His uniform was baggy and his nose was a half size too large for his face. On his lips the remains of a snarl lingered, as if just before the camera clicked he’d been trading taunts with a teammate.

Below the photo, his name was listed among all the other fine young freshmen hopefuls:
Jeffrey Jay Matheson (right field).

Thorn paged through the other yearbooks. In his sophomore year Matheson made the team again. Still stuck in right field. No sign of Flynn or Sawyer on any of the other teams. In his junior year Matheson disappeared from the varsity. But at the bottom of the page he appeared in a small photo, demoted to team manager.