Garden of Evil (3 page)

“But you should come to see me,” he said softly. “Why is it we have never had lunch?”

“I usually don't eat lunch. Deadlines,” I said.

“So,” he said slyly, “we don't need food.”

“How is Lourdes?” I asked brightly. “She worked so hard in your campaign. She must be exhausted.”

“My wife.” He shrugged. “She is busy with the children. Call me,” he said meaningfully, “anytime you are free. Anytime.” He gave me his pathetic attempt at a suave and seductive look as he pressed his damp card between my fingers. It lacked the intended effect. Instead, I wanted to go wash my hands. “Anytime,” he whispered again. “Call me.” He stepped onto the elevator on his way up to see the chief. I wondered if anybody had called ahead to warn the poor man.

 

Back at the office I passed along the tip on Sonny's missing office furniture to Barbara, our city hall reporter, who rolled her eyes, and then rang Althea Mason, the woman who wrote that somebody was trying to kill her. Again, no answer. For a woman desperately seeking help, she was annoyingly difficult to reach. I checked the state desk for the latest from Shelby County. A hero's funeral was being planned. In wire photos, grim deputies wore strips of black mourning tape across their badges. Lawmen from three counties and the Florida Department of Law Enforcement were combing north Florida for the killer and the missing Blazer. The mystery woman now had a price on her head. A $25,000 reward had been offered and would probably grow.

Local stories languished in my tickler file, but curiosity sent me flipping through my Rolodex to find a number for Charlie Webster, long-time reporter for the
Shelby County Register
, a small daily.

“Hey, Charlie. This is Britt, from
The Miami News.
”

“Britt! Where the hell are ya? Here in town?”

“No, still down in Miami.”

“Thought maybe you got them to send you up here to cover the demise of our late great sheriff.”

“No way. They're using your stories right off the wire. Enough action here to keep me working twenty-four and seven.”

“No doubt. How fare you in the never-ending war against crime, criminals, and cops? Most excitement we usually get round here is posting your stories on our newsroom bulletin board. You do that little gem on the headless driver? Sounded like yours. Had a feeling there was more to it.”

“There was. Space problems,” I said. “Wait till I tell you about the press conference I went to today.” I filled him in. Leaning back in my chair, I focused on the flawless blue sky beyond the newsroom's big windows. “What's the four-one-one on your sheriff?”

“Biggest story here since that rasha UFO sightin's couple years back. Big in every way. 01' Rupert weighed in at 'bout two hundred and ninety pounds. Wasn't a tall man, only about five foot seven or so, but he made up for it in clout. Hell, we got cops coming from all sixty-seven counties, Georgia, and South Carolina for the funeral.”

“He was that well liked?”

“Well connected more like it. A long-time power player in the good-ol'-boy network up here.”

“How come they haven't caught the killer? Who is she?”

“Nobody knows. She's one long-gone lady. Musta hit the freeway and racked up a messa miles 'tween her and here 'fore the body was found. Could be anywhere by
now. Haven't had a sighting since that trucker put her behind the wheel of Buddy's Blazer. Could be in the Big Apple drinking a beer or down there in Miami sipping a Cuba Libre.”

“Too damn hot to come here,” I said. “Maybe she stashed his car and is right there under your nose. Think she's local or some tourist he stopped on the interstate?”

“No way a-tellin' yet. Whichever, I don't wanna be her. They're hot on her tail. A lot of people want that little gal, and most are packing guns.”

“Too bad you don't have her car, that would probably tell you who she is. How come? Wasn't it a violation of procedure to have a prisoner in custody and not run her ID on the air so the dispatcher could check?”

“Hell, Britt, police work ain't as formal up here as in the big city. For one thing, who's gonna tell the sheriff he's violating procedure? Procedure was whatever he decided to do.”

“What was he like?”

“Okay, long as you didn't cross him.”

His voice hinted at a whole lot more.

“What was the scene like? Where was he shot?”

“You writing something 'bout it?”

“Nope. Not unless she shows up here. Just curious.”

“Hell, Britt,” he drawled, “she makes it to Miami, she'll get lost in the crowd and nobody'll ever find her. Nobody'd notice another killer in Miami.”

“Don't let the Chamber of Commerce hear you. What was unusual about the murder scene, Charlie?”

“We-e-ll,” he said reluctantly, “you know, ol' Rupert, he liked the ladies.”

“They like him?”

“Like probably isn't the right word, but power's a trip for lotsa ladies. You know how women are, specially 'bout cops. Guns and badges are babe magnets.”

“So you think sex is involved?” Lottie was right. Sex had something to do with everything lately.

“Didn't say that.”

Ugly thoughts crossed my mind. “You think maybe some of his female prisoners didn't always stay prisoners, depending on their…attitudes about sex?”

“Rumors to that effect made the rounds.”

“What was he wearing when he was shot?” I am often accused of having a dirty mind. It's probably true.

“Well, seems ol' Rupert was bare-assed when he bought it. Had his shirt on, but his britches was down around his ankles.”

“He'd had sex?”

“Looked that way.”

“Where was he shot?”

“You know.”

“You mean…?”

“Politely put, shot in the groin.”

“Jeez. Sure this isn't a mob killing? Was he shot anyplace else?”

“In the head. Musta dropped after the first one. Who wouldn't? Then the killer put the pistol to his forehead and fired again.”

“Ouch. A contact wound? The blow-back must have splattered her with blood. Sounds kind of messy and mean-spirited for a woman. You sure she was alone?” Most women don't like a mess. Those who kill are usually more fastidious.

“That ain't the half of it. Coroner won't say for publication, but they was like mini-shotgun blasts. He got blown away by his own pistol. Always kept it loaded with Black Talon hollow points.”

“Whoa.” Black Talon ammo is designed to maim. On impact, the slugs peel open, fanning into jagged flower-shaped blades that shred internal organs. Cops favor their stopping power. Targets go down and don't get up, and the bullets are far less likely to ricochet or pass through a body and hit somebody else. Criminals like Black Talons too. Their use of the deadly ammo generated enough pub
lic outcry that the manufacturer voluntarily took it off the market back in 1994. Only cops can legally buy it now.

“You sure this wasn't a hit by somebody trying to make it look sex-related?”

“Some things you can't fake, Britt.”

“Killed in his own office, right? What's the layout like?” Unconsciously, I had picked up a pencil and was scribbling notes.

“No windows, one door enters off the lobby, another opens into the jail annex where there's four holding cells. No tenants at the time unfortunately, or we mighta had us an eyewitness. Had his desk in there, four file cabinets, a little fridge, a gun cabinet, an evidence safe, a TV—and a big ol' leather couch.”

“So your impression is he might have interviewed suspects on that couch?” The infamous casting couch in reverse, I thought. Audition, and maybe you don't have to play the role of defendant.

“There'd been rumors around for years.”

“Women he arrested?”

“Females, period. Prisoners, prisoners' wives, secretaries, dispatchers, even female deputies who wanted to keep their jobs or git promoted.”

“Eeewwwwee. You ever write about it?”

“Britt, I keep telling ya, things are different up here.”

True. The farther north you go in Florida, the farther south you get.

“What you putting in your story, Charlie?”

“You kidding? Our publisher already handed down the word. Brascom's widow and grown kids live here. Hell, her granddaddy was a pioneer, first preacher in these parts. Buddy's the victim, he got killed, there's no proof, who ya gonna get to speak ill of the dead anyhow?”

“Nobody, probably, unless you ask them. What happens when she gets caught and spills the story at trial?”

“It'd just get blamed on her sleazy defense lawyer; everybody knows how they operate. But that has to happen
first. Chances are, you know, cop killers—especially up in this part of the state—usually don't get taken alive.”

He was right.

“Specially this one. Not only did she take off with his sidearm, she helped herself to a coupla boxes of his ammo.”

“Black Talons?”

“Yeah.”

“A
LTHEA MORAN, PLEASE
.”

“Who's calling?” the woman's voice was guarded.

“Britt Montero, from
The Miami News.
”

The silence was so long, I thought she'd hung up, after I'd finally reached her.

“How do I know you're who you say you are?”

I sighed. “Well, if you recall, you wrote to me.'

“Yes?” Her voice was irritatingly noncommittal.

“If you're still interested in speaking to me, you can call me back, the number is—”

“Thank you anyway, I'll just call the main number at the paper and ask for you.”

She was difficult, probably paranoid. I had half a mind not to answer when she called minutes later. But I did.

“It is you. Please forgive me, Ms. Montero, but I have good reason to be cautious.'

“I understand. Why do you think somebody—”

“Please! We mustn't discuss it over the telephone.”

Here we go, I thought. I knew it. “Why not?”

“The only way to know a conversation is private is to conduct it face-to-face, alone in the same room.”

“Yes, but Ms. Moran, this isn't the sort of thing you want to keep private. If what you say is true, the more
people who know, the safer you are. Doesn't that make sense?”

Another pause. “Call me Althea.” Her voice sounded softer and more vulnerable. “I'm not crazy.”

“I never said you were. What's going on, Althea?”

“They've tried to kill me,” she whispered. “Twice.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

“Why would someone try to kill you?”

Ryan stopped tapping his keyboard behind me. He was eavesdropping.

“I don't have a clue. That's what keeps me awake at night, driving me…wild. I can't think of any reason, any motive.”

“Ms.—Althea. In my experience, when somebody wants to kill you, you usually know why.” People often deny it, but they know. Like the driver found in a bullet-riddled car, alive because of his bulletproof vest. He insisted to police that he had no idea why anyone would try to kill him. He had no explanation for why he was wearing body armor either.

“I am no fly-by-night,” Althea Moran was saying defensively. “I am a solid citizen, a native Miamian.” Her voice shook slightly. “I was bom here. I am not a person with enemies. You can check your files, my picture appeared in your newspaper—oh, at least a dozen times.”

I lifted an eyebrow.

“I was Althea Albury then,” she said, as though reading my mind. “I was Orange Bowl queen in 1973.”

“Orange Bowl queen?”

“Yes. In 1973 I rode the biggest, most beautiful float in the parade. Earnie Seiler outdid himself that year. Our float was breathtaking, a huge golden sunburst, waterfalls, and swaying palm trees that lit up. I wore glittery silver and white—and the crown, of course; the four princesses, my court, wore pink. You probably weren't bom yet.”

“Oh, I was there,” I said, wondering if she was. “I
was the little girl sitting on the curb in front of the Everglades Hotel.”

My grandmother took me to the parade every New Year's Eve. We fought huge crowds, thousands of people. The best always came last: the queen and her court atop the final float, regal and glamorous, wearing long white gloves, smiling, and waving no matter what the weather.

“That was the year we had the cold snap,” she said. “It was the first parade nationally telecast in full color. The mayor and the Chamber of Commerce sent somebody to shut down the power to that bank building along the parade route that displayed the time and temperature. They blacked it out so people around the country wouldn't see how cold it was in Miami. They told us to think warm and keep smiling. We almost froze our you-know-whats off—but we never stopped smiling.

“I caught a terrible cold, but it was the most wonderful week. When it was over—the luncheons, the ball, the regatta, and the big game—and we got rid of the chaperone, Richard proposed and we got engaged. It was an incredible year.”

Her letter had said she was alone.

“Are you a widow?”

“No. Divorced.”

Aha, I thought. When somebody wants you dead, it's most likely a loved one, or an ex-loved one. “Is he local? Still in town?”

“Oh, yes, his practice is here….”

“You think he's behind your problem?”

“Richard?” Taken aback, she gave a little half laugh. “Up till now he's been responsible for nearly all my problems. He might make me wish I was dead, but he wouldn't try to kill me.”

“You've reported everything to the police?”

“Oh, yes. I have the police reports.”

“Excuse me.” I covered the mouthpiece for a few mo
ments. “Uh-oh, my editor is calling me to a meeting. I'll get back to you.”

I lied. No meeting. No editor. Cynic that I am, I wanted to confirm what she'd said before investing more time. It defies common sense when people lie to reporters about easily checked facts, but they do, all the time. Probably the same people who lie on resumes, rent applications, and their income tax. They lie about their police records, credit ratings, and marital status. Sometimes they lie for no reason. Trust no one, not even the president. Our competition recently fell for a tale told by a Cuban physician who swore she had treated Fidel Castro for a potentially fatal brain ailment. Not until after publishing the exclusive did they learn she was no doctor, not even a nurse, and hadn't even been in Cuba when she said the “treatment” took place.

Even poor Ryan had been burned. Badly. He interviewed a World War II combat vet, winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor. The aging hero, now elderly and homeless on the mean streets, had been denied treatment at Miami's VA hospital because he had no paperwork. He said he had pawned the medal to eat long ago, but he still recounted with patriotic zeal his colorful tales of heart-stopping wartime experiences. Despite it all, he still loved his country. Editors planned to front-page it on Memorial Day. From hero to homeless, this hell of a story would have wounded the national consciousness, torpedoed heartless VA bureaucrats, and won our forgotten hero the gratitude and support he deserved. He was a reporter's dream—except for one minor flaw. Not a word he said was true. The man had won no medals and had never served his country—though he
had
served time, mostly in jails and drunk tanks.

He was so damn believable that Ryan failed to place the routine call to Washington to confirm the man's Medal of Honor until the day before the piece was to run. Lottie had spent hours shooting our hero, humble and misty-eyed,
as he saluted Old Glory at the Bayfront Park war memorial.

The photos were dramatic and touching. Too bad they were seen only on the bulletin board down at security, along with mug shots of other scam artists, crooks, and undesirables banned from the building. Lottie was still barely speaking to Ryan.

I grabbed a quick cup of coffee and trotted down the hall. What used to be the newspaper morgue is called the library now. Stories published before 1982, when it went on-line, were still in the hard copy archives. I browsed the dusty, poorly lit shelves for the name files beginning with A. Sure enough, Althea Albury had a folder of her own. Then I scaled the ladder to O and plucked the fat Orange Bowl file for 1973. I sat at a librarian's desk and flipped them open, the first time anyone had touched them in years.

Orange Bowl Queen Althea Albury smiled up at me, her regal brow serene. A fairy-tale beauty, a University of Miami student, blonde, blue-eyed, and sweet-faced, with a Scarlett O'Hara waistline, she looked demure and pure, wearing the crown and crinolines of a more innocent time, the symbol of old Miami, the Magic City, the tourist mecca, the fun-and-sun capital of the world, before riots, Mariel, and murder made headlines. News photographers long dead or retired had captured the crowds and the floats from dozens of angles as the parade progressed. Scanning the faces, I searched for myself, the little girl seated on the sidelines along Biscayne Boulevard, wishing my dad was there to lift me up higher for a better look at the queen floating by in all her magnificence.

Her engagement announcement appeared at a time when no one had to pay for its publication. My waves of nostalgia crashed on the rocks of reality. Newspapers not so long ago truly chronicled the three times in life when most people got their names in the paper. Birth announcements, wedding notices, and obituaries are all paid ads today.
Only celebrities count, along with those who can afford to pay. Landmarks in the lives of those who cannot afford to pay do not exist for the newspaper.

Althea Albury definitely existed.

Richard Moran was a cardiologist, a fact not lost on the society-page writer, who reported that the handsome young doctor who mended hearts had lost his own to the Orange Bowl queen. Where, I wondered, did this story-book romance go wrong? Did anybody ever live happily ever after?

“Hey, whatcha digging for back here?”

Lottie had a stack of photos in her hand. She peered over my shoulder.

“Purty woman. What year was that?”

“'Seventy-three,” I said.

“Probably a grandma by now, or wanting to be. Didya know that Dean Martin's first wife was an Orange Bowl queen way back when? Saw her on the float, it was love at first sight, and off to Hollywood. What'd this one do?”

“Claims somebody's trying to kill her. Don't know if it's true yet. Hear anymore from your ex?”

Lottie sighed. “Quit taking his calls. No point in picking up. He'd only sweet-talk me into something I'd regret. They catch the woman who shot the sheriff yet?”

“Nope. But wait till you hear the latest. She might surface with an abuse excuse. The sheriff may have a history of coercing sex from women, including prisoners.”

“Think she got scared, managed to git his gun, and shot 'im?”

“It's a theory. If it's true, she's probably terrified. She's in a whole lot of trouble no matter how it happened. Even if it was self-defense, chances are no jury up there would believe her. Somebody might even shoot her before she can tell it. Smartest thing she could do now is surrender on neutral turf where she can tell her story and try to get public sentiment and some feminist groups behind her.
She needs the best damn lawyer she can find and a definite change of venue.”

“Wouldn't mind covering the story; sounds like you wouldn't either. Maybe she'll come down here.”

“We can only hope.” I closed Althea Albury's folder. “I've had a real dry spell between big stories lately. I don't know how the justice team deals with it,” I told her. Four reporters are assigned to the team that works only on sensitive investigative projects. I secretly suspected them of being lazy, taking advantage of the unlimited time they are given, without deadline pressures, to produce a story. “They've been working on something for weeks now,” I said. “I like to see my work in the newspaper every day. It's been so long since I've had a solo front-page byline that I expect my mother to call any minute now to ask if I still work here. I'd love to know what really happened up in Shelby County. Let's look up the sheriff.”

 

The wires had moved a head shot after the shooting and we found older photos, taken at Florida Association of Chiefs of Police conventions and at dedication ceremonies at the Florida Sheriffs' Boys Ranch.

We spread them out on the desk, images of the murdered lawman at various stages of his lengthy career. Heavyset and stern-looking, T. Rupert Brascom was square-jawed, jowly, and thick across the middle. His wedding ring was clearly visible in several.

“Some people in power get away with abuse for so long they think they're entitled, that they're above the law.”

“Looks like the type,” Lottie said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well.” She sniffed and pointed a number-three pencil at one of the photos. “See here, that thin upper lip? My daddy always called that a sure sign of meanness.”

“Oh, that's certainly scientific.”

“Never fails. And looky here, see the whites of his eyes
beneath his pupils in this one? An indication of criminal behavior. Ya see it in mug shots all the time. Ever notice?”

“It's only the camera angle, the tilt of his head,” I argued, trying to remember the eyes in the hundreds of mug shots I'd seen. “You'd sure be a fair and impartial juror.”

“I'd acquit in a minute,” she said. “Probably give her a medal for marksmanship.”

“She didn't need to be much of a marksman, they were contact wounds,” I said. “You just have a mad on for men at the moment. Wonder what really happened? Hope she doesn't get killed or commit suicide before she tells.”

 

I grew restless back at my computer terminal. The newsroom was too cold and too dangerous. Frigid air cascaded across my desk from an air-conditioning duct overhead, and Gretchen, the assistant city editor from hell, might glance up at any moment, decide I did not look busy, and shoot some cockamamie assignment at me like a bullet with my name on it. I watched her, one hand on her hip, leaning on the city desk, head tilted, as she spoke on the telephone, showing off her perfectly coiffed hair and crisp designer suit. How did she manage to arrive here untouched by heat and humidity? Did she tunnel her way into the building? Did she sleep sitting up? As the editors filed into their afternoon news meeting, I called Althea, left word with the city desk clerk that I would be out following up a story lead, and made my getaway.

Her address was on Alhambra. The city of Coral Gables has several: a drive, a circle, a way—and no street signs. Names like Alcantarra, Algaringo, Almeria, and Alhambra are carved into low dusky-colored coral rock curbstones, difficult to read in daylight, invisible at night, the attitude being that if you are lost you don't belong in the city beautiful.