New Hope for the Dead (18 page)

“But somebody killed him, Hoke. And Dyer said on the phone he’s got a prisoner over in the stockade who wants to see a Homicide detective about Buford.”

“Okay, let’s go over and talk to him. We can’t solve any cases sitting around here on our ass.”

“I already told Dyer we’d be coming over,” Henderson said, slipping into his seersucker jacket. “If Dyer didn’t think it was an important lead, he wouldn’t have called me.”

Henderson drove his car, and they decided to stop for lunch before driving to the stockade. They ate at the Tres Cubanos Café on Seventh Street, both ordering the $3.95
Especial
, which included
café con leche
and
flan
with the
arroz con pollo
main dish.

At the Dade County Stockade they identified themselves, asked for Louis Dyer, and put their pistols and handcuffs into a metal-bound wooden box. The jailer locked the box with a padlock and took them down the hallway to a small, pastel-green interrogation room with a door of heavy wire mesh. There was a folding table, a pair of straight chairs and a coffee-can lid on the table. The brown linoleum floor was freshly waxed.

Louis Dyer, a stocky, serious man in his late forties, joined them a few minutes later. He shook hands with Henderson, who introduced him to Hoke. Dyer then handed Henderson the stockade file on an inmate named Ray Vince.

“I don’t know if there’s anything to this or not,” Dyer said. “The guys in here are always looking for an angle, trying to make some kind of deal. Vince is pulling a single for assault, with six months suspended. But the chances are good now that he won’t get the six-months suspension. He
broke his wife’s jaw, and her parents filed the charges when she was in the hospital. When his wife could talk again, she begged the judge to let him out. She needs the paycheck, you know. But before the judge decided what to do, Vince made another inmate eat a towel, so I don’t think the judge’ll release him now. He’ll probably have to do the full twelve months.”

“How can a man eat a towel?” Hoke said.

“He didn’t eat all of it, he only ate part of it. Then when he started to choke to death, another inmate pulled the towel out and tore about half the guy’s vocal cords out at the same time. He’s still in the locked ward at Jackson Hospital. If he ever talks again, he’ll be lucky if he can whisper.

“What was it?” Henderson asked. “A face towel or a bath towel?”

“Bath. This guy stole Vince’s towel, you see, and when Vince found out who took it, he told the guy if he wanted it so bad, he could eat it. Then he made him eat it.”

“So now Vince wants out,” Hoke said, “and wants to make a deal?” Hoke opened the stockade file and read the first page.

“It’s all in the file,” Dyer said, “the kinda prick Vince is. If it was me, I wouldn’t trust him at all. But then, it ain’t up to me, is it? I guess it won’t hurt to talk to him, if you’re working on old cases, Bill.”

“Who told you we were working on old cases?”

“When I called Homicide and mentioned Buford, the duty officer said you were on the cold cases, and I told him I knew you, that’s all. So he called you. Why, is it some kind of a secret?”

“Not anymore,” Henderson said.

“We’ll talk to him,” Hoke said. “This case is four years old, and there’re no leads at all.”

Dyer let himself out and returned a few minutes later with Ray Vince. Dyer opened the door and then locked
Vince in with the two detectives. Hoke closed Vince’s file and handed it to Henderson.

“Just holler when you’re through.” Dyer walked away.

Ray Vince was heavy set, with a soft white paunch that drooped in folds over his jail denims. His white T-shirt was immaculate, but it didn’t cover his pasty, hairy midriff. His russet hair was long, combed straight back. His nose had been broken at one time and reset poorly. He stared at the detectives with flat blue eyes.

Hoke, who had glanced hurriedly through the file, had learned that Vince was a truck driver who had made two round trips a week to Key West from Miami. He had earned about eight hundred dollars a week. No wonder his wife wanted him back. There was one previous arrest in addition to the current assault charge and conviction, though that case hadn’t gone to trial. Vince had broken a hitchhiker’s arm with a tire iron, but there were no witnesses, and Vince claimed that the man was trying to break into his truck. The man who had his arm broken claimed that he had merely asked Vince if he could get a ride back to Miami with him.

Hoke lit a Kool, then offered the pack to Ray Vince.

Vince shook his head. “I don’t smoke.”

“We’re from Homicide, Vince,” Henderson said. “What do you have to tell us?”

“I want outa here. I was supposed to get out next month, and now it looks like I’ll have to spend six more in here. I want to make a deal of some kind.”

“You shouldn’t’ve fed the man the towel,” Hoke said.

“What was I supposed to do? He shouldn’t’ve stole it. If the guy had asked to use my towel in a nice way, I might’ve loaned it to him. But he stole it.”

“I don’t think you’d’ve let him use it, no matter how nicely he asked,” Henderson said.

“Maybe not, but the sonofabitch stole it. Can I sit down? I was playing volleyball, and I’m a little pooped.”

“Grab a chair,” Hoke said. “What kind of deal do you have in mind?”

“Just tell the judge that I’m cooperative, and to give me a little consideration, that’s all. My wife wants me out, and so does my boss. So I shouldn’t have to pull another six months in the stockade because some sonofabitch in here’s a thief. It ain’t fair.”

“We can’t promise you anything,” Henderson said. “You’ll just have to tell us what you’ve got.”

“It may not be anything, and I’ll admit that. But I’m trying to be cooperative with the law. I’ve had some domestic problems, just like any married man, but I’m a good citizen.”

“So talk,” Henderson said.

“Well, the other night some guys were in the latrine drinking bang-bang, and they were all bragging to each other about how tough they were. Usually it don’t mean nothing, they’re just mouthing off, you know.”

“Were you drinking bang-bang with ’em?” Henderson asked.

“No, I don’t drink that stuff. It makes you crazy. I was just in there takin’ a shit. Then this one guy, Wetzel’s his name, bragged about killing a nigger in Overtown a few years back.”

“What was his name, the black man’s name he said he killed?”

“Wetzel was slurring his words, being pretty drunk, but it was either Burford or Buford, something like that.”

“Was it the man’s first name, or last name?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say, but people in here ain’t much on first names. They usually call a guy by his last name.”

“Did he say how he killed him?” Hoke said.

“He torched him. That’s what he said, but he said he took eighty dollars off him first. He might’ve been lyin’, but Wetzel’s an arson suspect, and he’s in here now for carryin’ a can of kerosene. He’s been over in the city jail, but he was transferred over here last week because of the overcrowding order. So I figgered it all adds up. He’s a firebug,
he had a can of kerosene, so maybe he did torch himself a nigger a few years back.”

“Thanks,” Henderson said. He crossed to the wire-mesh door and called out to Dyer. “We’re ready to go, Mr. Dyer.”

“Is that all?” Vince said. “What about our deal? Will you talk to the judge for me? I cooperated with you guys, didn’t I?”

“Sure you did, Vince,” Hoke said. “Are you sure you’ll get your old job back when you get out?”

“I’d better!” Vince thrust out his jaw.

“We can’t help you, Vince,” Hoke said. “But there are two other Homicide detectives who can—Detectives Quevedo and Donovan. They’ll be over to talk to you a little later. Just tell them what you told us, and try to remember any details. They’ll take care of you. In the meantime, see what else you can find out about Wetzel. Detective Quevedo is very interested in firebugs.”

“Can’t you guys say something nice about me, too?”

Bill laughed. “It’s hard to say something nice about a guy like you, Vince, but we’ll put a note in your file.”

Dyer unlocked the door. He took Vince down to the end of the corridor and turned him over to another corrections officer, who would escort him back to the yard.

Dyer rejoined Henderson and Hoke, and Hoke returned Vince’s stockade file.

“He wasn’t much help to us, Louis,” Henderson said. “But there’ll be two more Homicide detectives coming over to see him later. Quevedo and Donovan. Vince told us our man was torched to death, but Buford was killed with an icepick through the ear. The handle was still in his ear when they found him, and he wasn’t burnt. But Quevedo and Donovan are looking for a firebug.”

“Quevedo?” Dyer said, frowning. “I know him. He was the guy who fell in love with a painting, wasn’t he?”

“That’s the rumor,” Bill said, “but he got over it. If I was you, I wouldn’t mention it to him, though.”

Bill and Hoke retrieved their pistols and handcuffs, and headed back to the station.

When they got back to the interrogation room and the files, Hoke sent Henderson out to the bullpen to fill Quevedo and Donovan in on the information Vince had given them about Wetzel. Hoke then called the morgue from his office and asked the secretary if he could talk to Doc Evans.

“He can’t come to the phone now, Sergeant Moseley,” the woman told him. “He’s doing a
P.M.
and can’t be interrupted. But I can give him a message.”

“Do you know if you’ve done the autopsy on Hickey, Gerald?”

“Let me check …” Hoke waited for almost two minutes before she came on the line again. “No, not yet. But they might get to him tonight. Evans is supposed to get a part-time pathologist in tonight to help out with the Descanso Hotel victims. We’ve been pretty busy around here.”

“Okay, but just ask him to check—when he does the
P.M.
on Hickey—and see if the man had piles. And if so, what kind of suppositories he was using.”

“You mean like Preparation H?”

“That, or whatever. Whether he had piles or not, I mean hemorrhoids.”

“I’ve made a note. Where should he call you?”

“I don’t know where I’ll be yet, but tell Doc I’ll call him back about this later on.”

“You spell ‘Moseley’ with an
e
, don’t you?”

“That’s right. Most people leave out the second
e
. And thanks a lot.”

Hoke looked at his Timex. It was only 3
P.M.
, but he couldn’t face the idea of reading files for another hour and a half. There were times, he knew, when he could no longer look at the outside world from inside the asshole. This was one of those times. He left his office and returned to the interrogation room.

Sanchez looked up from her file and frowned. “Bill told
me you’d been over to the Dade County Stockade. You should’ve left me a note. I didn’t know where you were.”

“You don’t need to know everything, and we weren’t gone long.”

“I know that. But if someone wanted to know where you were, and I couldn’t tell them, it would make you look bad. How could I cover for you?”

“All right. Next time I’ll leave you a message. What else?” Jesus, Hoke thought, she’s already practicing to be a mother.

“Did you sign my voucher?”

“I didn’t see it.”

“I put it in your in-box.”

“I didn’t look in my in-box. I’ll sign it now, and then I’m going back to the hotel. You can put the files away, and tell Bill to go home, too. He can fill you in on what we found out at the stockade. Okay?”

“It’s only a little after three.” Ellita glanced at her gold watch.

“I know what time it is. I’ve got to go out tonight, and I don’t know what to do about the girls.”

“Go ahead. I’ll take them out to dinner, and maybe we’ll go to a movie.”

“That would be very kind of you.”

“Not really. That hotel depresses me as much as it does the girls. Maybe instead of a movie I should look for an apartment. I’ve circled some classifieds in the
Miami News.”

“Hold off on that for a while, Ellita. I’ve got an idea I want to talk to you about later. All right?”

Ellita shrugged. “There’s no great hurry, I guess.”

“Just put the stuff away and go back to the hotel, Ellita. As far as I’m concerned, it’s quitting time.”

Hoke signed Sanchez’s voucher, placed it in Lieutenant Slater’s in-box, and left the station. Hoke would need Ellita to help him with the girls, but this wasn’t the right time to suggest that they share a house together.

*    *    *

Sue Ellen and Aileen were waiting for Hoke in the lobby of the Eldorado. Aileen ran to meet him when he came through the double doors, hugged him, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek when he pulled back. She handed him seven one-dollar bills.

“I washed two dogs, Daddy,” she said, looking down at the floor, “a dachshund and a little toy poodle. The lady who owned the dachshund paid me five dollars, but the man who had the poodle only gave me two. He said the job wasn’t worth more than two.”

“Did you tell him in advance that you charged five?”

“Yes, I did. But he only gave me two.”

Hoke returned the seven dollars. “Here, put it in your purse. You earned it, and it’s your money. Do you remember where this guy lives?”

“The Alton Arms.” She nodded and pointed. “On Third Street.”

“What’s his name?”

“Mr. Lewis.”

“Okay, we’ll go over and talk to him.”

“Can I go too?” Sue Ellen said.

“No. Ellita’ll be here in a few minutes, and you can tell her we’ll be back soon. Otherwise she’d worry about where you were.”

Hoke and Aileen walked the three blocks to the Alton Arms, a fading pistachio-colored apartment house two stories high with a pink Spanish tile roof. There was a veranda in front, and a half-dozen residents—four old ladies and two old men—were sitting on plastic-webbed chairs and looking across the street. Their view was another two-story apartment house, with four old people sitting on webbed chairs looking back at them.

“Is that Mr. Lewis, honey?” Hoke asked. “The man with the poodle in his lap?”

“That’s him. He’s holding Thor. That’s the dog’s name.”