Garden of Evil (9 page)

I
CALLED THE CITY DESK FROM A LAND LINE, A
nearby pay phone. Minutes later, by the time I parked in the shadows beneath the building, the paper's lawyer and a half dozen editors were en route. The state's most wanted killer and Miami's highest profile politico had collided head on, right on our deadline for the final. The newsroom, usually winding down at this hour, became a frenzied beehive of activity.

“Britt said the killer would come here,” Bobby Tubbs babbled. “She knew. But who'da thought she'd cross paths with Sonny Saladrigas?”

The story was breaking too late for TV at eleven. With any luck, the competition still knew nothing. South Florida and the world would wake up to the shocking news on our front page. First I had to convince my bosses. Despite my assurances that I had seen the body, they wanted official confirmation.

Fred Douglas, my city editor, called the mayor at home. He was out, gone to “the terrible tragedy,” his wife said, warily declining to elaborate. At the same time, the police chief made the mistake of answering his cell phone. My heart pounded.

“Is it true that Commissioner Saladrigas has been murdered,” I asked, “apparently by the Kiss-Me Killer?”

“Where did you get that information?” he blustered. “How'd you find out so fast?”

That was enough. They ripped up the front page to display news-photo high points of the dead commissioner's political career and used head shots, off the wires, of the other victims.

Editors hovered around my terminal, peering over my shoulder as the words appeared on the screen, exclaiming and muttering, reacting to what they read as my fingers flew across the keyboard. We had only minutes to wrap it for the final.

In a running debate as I worked, they decided that we would appear insensitive and mean-spirited if we focused on Sonny's dubious political practices in the initial report of his brutal murder, since the two did not appear to be directly related.

His frequent official trips to our sister city south of the border were mentionable, but not the allegations that his dedication to the program was linked to the city's abundant supply of teenage prostitutes. Sonny's seedy side surely played a role in his own demise, but there would be time and space in which to explore that later. For now, the more sordid details were judiciously edited. My references to the “controversial commissioner,” his “partially clothed” corpse, and his “gunshot to the genitals” stayed in; details about the cigar did not. Family photos arranged on the body were acceptable; precisely where, was not.

“Remember,” the publisher said piously, “this is the story his children will read someday.” He had arrived in the newsroom clad in black tie, straight from some charity fund raiser at the Fontainebleau hotel.

I turned in the copy and fished a cotton blazer out of my ladies' room locker to dress up my jeans and T-shirt as best I could. Not tired, not hungry, I was flying—on the adrenaline high achieved when you are first with the
biggest story in the state. I hoped Lottie would be assigned, but she didn't answer phone or pager, which was totally unlike her. Another photographer, Villanueva, was assigned instead.

I returned to the crime scene as the blessed downpour soaked parched ground, drenched moisture-starved foliage, and flooded the streets. Miami was back to normal: hot, wet, and weird. I called Charlie Webster on the way.

“She's he-e-e-re,” I crooned.

“Who is this?” he grumped sleepily. “Britt? Tha'chu? What the heck time is it? She catch another one?”

“The biggest so far,” I said. “A Miami city commissioner, the former vice mayor. She's still out there. No time to talk, but check our story. I already filed it. Later, Charlie.”

The entire parking lot and the Boulevard in front were roped off now, traffic diverted. City and county cars and crime-scene vans were clustered everywhere, their flashers bouncing off buildings and rain-slick streets.

The mayor and the city manager scuffled with cops guarding the scene, trying to push their way into the room to see Sonny's corpse, then turned on each other with flailing fists. Another Miami moment. Villanueva captured their antics. Ojeda, Simmons, and two prosecutors from the State Attorney's office flatly refused them entry.

Along with Sonny's executive assistant, they demanded access from the chief. To the man's credit, he backed his detectives, explaining that the murder case could be lost if the defense impugned the crime scene's integrity due to alleged contamination by unauthorized civilians.

A Spanish-speaking TV crew rolled up, clearly tipped by the mayor or the manager. Word was out. By dawn, reporters outnumbered cops.

The rain faded as a rosy blush softened the horizon and swarms of invading news choppers hammered the air overhead.

I never hinted that our story was already landing on wet
lawns. Instead, I mingled with my peers who were clamoring for information and official confirmation of the victim's identity.

The county mayor, other politicos, and their hangers-on began arriving to express their shock and to take advantage of the photo ops. Swarmed by reporters, they lamented the loss and extolled Sonny's virtues. The man had sprouted a halo and wings. He would have loved it.

It is the norm for Miami politicians, exposed, indicted, even convicted, to be overwhelmingly reelected by voters who are apparently brain dead or, in some cases, literally dead, as recent voter fraud investigations revealed. Sometimes, a felony record seems a prerequisite for holding office.

Sonny was the classic comeback kid. Stung by scandal, sued by the state, blasted by the press, indicted by the feds, and down for the count, he always bounced back to the top.

He would not be back from this one.

Shortly after their return from notifying the widow, the chief and the two detectives agreed to talk to the press. Politicians rushed to join them, pushing and shoving, jockeying for position in front of the cameras.

The chief grimly confirmed that the victim was indeed Sonny and introduced the detectives, who acknowledged that the Kiss-Me Killer might indeed be the suspect. They disclosed only the barest of details. The cigar and the Viagra went unmentioned, along with other specifics. They acknowledged the cocaine, which had field-tested positive, only after direct questions from reporters who knew Sonny's reputation.

They asked for the public's assistance in locating the commissioner's missing midnight-blue Mercedes-Benz C43, a sleek high-performance model, top speed one hundred and fifty-five miles an hour and zero to sixty in six seconds.

The midnight shift remained on overtime, the day shift
had arrived, off-duty personnel had been mustered, and a grid search of the entire city was taking place, street by street, alley by alley. Private security guards in golf carts scoured the parking facilities at condos and apartment complexes.

She had never stayed long in one place, and 1 wondered why they focused on the city. I envisioned the Mercedes, its powerful engine whining, flying low across the Seven Mile Bridge in the Keys. Continuing south would be a mistake, I thought. There is only one road in and out of Key West and no place left to run at the end.

Miami's more muscular mayor wrestled the microphone away from the county mayor and upstaged him, announcing that the city was posting an additional $25,000 reward for arrest and conviction of the killer. He made an emotional plea for calm in the face of this latest crisis.

“We are sending a message,” he said, “that we will not tolerate violence against our duly elected officials or any citizen of this great city. This heinous crime will not go unpunished. We will not be cowed by those who…” and so on and so on and so on. Blah-blah, blah-blah, blah-blah-blah. The press corps stopped taking notes, eyes glazing, until somebody showed up with a copy of the
News.
They crowded around.

The headline, in six-column 72-point Bodoni:

MIAMI COMMISSIONER SLAIN AT MOTEL

with three lines of 30-point subhead:

SALADRIGAS POSSIBLE FIFTH VICTIM

OF NOTORIOUS KISS-ME KILLER;

FEMALE SUSPECT FLEES IN HIS MERCEDES

Howls of protest rose. Complaints from news directors and station managers would surely follow, charging Miami police with favoritism and demanding to know why we had the story first. Who would believe that I happened to be in the right place at the right moment—that I was meant to own this story?

The medical examiner's van rolled up, exciting the TV
crews, whetting their appetites for the footage they crave. Sonny Saladrigas, covered by the same purple blanket, would be maneuvered down the stairs on the same stretcher, plopped onto the same gurney, and slid into the same morgue wagon by the same crew that removes countless anonymous victims whose deaths go virtually unnoticed. Nobody holds press conferences or authorizes overtime to solve their murders.

No reason for me to stay. I drove to the Saladrigas home in Coconut Grove. Lottie had finally surfaced and met me there. She looked tired but radiant.

“So where were you during Sonny's last date?”

“Tex chartered us a boat,” she murmured, rolling her eyes. “The captain, a Cuban guy he met somewhere, took us out to one of them little spoil islands, built us a campfire. Brought everything: music, blankets, gourmet food and wine. Had our own private beach. Then the captain says
Adios, muchachos,
he'd be back when Tex beeped 'im.”

“What about the rain?”

“For a while I wasn't sure they didn't arrange that too, like movie crews do. The rain was like a mirage, a fantasy, like being trapped by a typhoon on a deserted tropical island with a handsome, sexy stud. We ran for cover, a lil' tin-roofed shelter. Shoulda heard the rain pounding on that tin roof, the wind whistling, palms bending in the storm. It got a little chilly, so we had to keep each other warm—”

“I get the picture,” I said.

“Left my beeper behind,” she admitted. “For the first time. So, naturally, the biggest damn story of the year broke. Dad blast it, just my luck.”

“You never choose romance over a great picture. This must be serious. Did he propose?”

“Only about two hundred times. But I'm still waiting for the other boot to drop. If I hadn't lived through all this before, I'd be trousseau-shopping right now. Can't
believe the Kiss-Me Killer nailed ol' Sonny. Musta been like the last ten minutes of a bad horror flick. Lordy, if it didn't have her name on it, the lista suspects'd be so long they'd never figure it out. Who
didn't
want to kill Sonny?”

Cars packed the circular driveway. The house was crowded, with people speaking both English and Spanish. I didn't expect the widow to be receiving the press, given the circumstances. I was wrong.

Pale and wan, clutching a damp handkerchief, her bewildered and photogenic children clustered around her, Lourdes Saladrigas continued to do what she had done for years. She campaigned for Sonny.

“He was a wonderful husband and father and he loved this city and its people,” she said tearfully, seated on a sofa, wearing a simple black dress and holding her children close, the youngest on her lap. I shuddered slightly, remembering the last time I had seen their innocent faces, in the photos at the crime scene.

The little one squirmed. So did I, along with other reporters, at the widow's version of events.

“Sonny never met a stranger.” She smiled sadly. “He was always so generous, so quick to help anybody in trouble. He could never turn away from anyone in need.”

Waymon Andrews from WTOP-TV caught my eye and lifted a brow. The Sonny we knew was always so quick to pick a pocket, pocket a bribe, or pick up a hooker.

“He was set up,” the widow said, “by people who knew what an easy mark he would be.”

“How do you think he was set up?” Andrews feigned interest and perplexed concern.

“Sonny could never pass by an accident scene…”

True, the Bar Association had censured him twice for pressing his business cards on the survivors of crash victims while bodies were still trapped in the wreckage.

“…or a stranded motorist without stopping to help.”

Only, I thought, if she was young and pretty.

“If it is this…person they suspect,” the widow said, repositioning little Yvette, determinedly trying to wriggle off her lap, “they say her MO may be to fake car trouble. Then she murders any good Samaritan who offers help. Sonny must have stopped to assist a woman driver stranded in the dark, helped her find a motel room, and was seeing her safely to her door when…” Her dark eyes brimmed and she paused, lips trembling, to stroke her toddler's hair.

“So you're saying this might have been a conspiracy? That Sonny was specifically targeted and not a random victim?” I asked.

“Definitely. His political enemies would do anything to stop Sonny. Anything.” She nodded, voice barely audible. “Some are even in the press. They know who they are.” Her moist eyes roved the room. “I gave the detectives their names. The police promised to do everything they can.”

I wanted to ask how Sonny's enemies managed to find the most hunted and homicidal woman in the state and convince her to target him, but the widow had no more to say. Handing the children over to a relative, she opened her arms to new arrivals at the door. Sobs resounded as an older woman fell weeping into her embrace.

“She talking about the same Sonny Saladrigas we all knew?” Waymon Andrews asked, as we walked down the gravel driveway to our cars.

“I guess she loved him,” I said. “Is it loyalty or did she really believe all that? How could she live with the man and not see what he was?”

“Love is blind,” Lottie said, suddenly glum. “Could be she just wants her kids to grow up loving their daddy and believin' that's what really happened.”

“I bet it's her platform,” Andrews said cynically. “You know, good Samaritan's widow appointed to serve out his term. If she doesn't get the appointment and they decide to hold an election to fill his slot, I betcha she runs for it.”