Solomon & Lord Drop Anchor (13 page)

I laughed and said, “And Charlie would look
at the jury, scratch his beard, and say, ‘Only if we omit the fact
that a second before falling, the decedent was shot in the back by
a gun covered with your client’s fingerprints.’”

The English lady nearly smiled, and it didn’t
seem to hurt.

“Pamela’s on a book tour,” Charlie told me,
“and my old friend Warwick at Broadmoor asked her to look me
up.”

“Warwick at Broadmoor?” I asked, with a blank
face.

“Dr. Warwick heads the forensic unit at
Broadmoor. Hospital for the criminally insane,” Charlie added, as
if any dolt should know. “In London. Dr. Metcalf was instrumental
in apprehending and then treating the Firebug Murderer.”

I was silent, not willing to admit my
ignorance quite so often.

The lady psychiatrist rescued me. “Just a
lad, really. The fellow would find lovers parked in their cars,
snogging away—”

“Snogging, were they?” I asked, eyebrows
raised in mock disapproval.

“Yes, what you would call … oh, Dr. Riggs,
help me.”

Charlie coughed and said, “Necking and what
have you.”

I nodded, knowingly.

“In any event,” Dr. Metcalf continued, “this
poor wretch would seek out lovers, pour petrol over them, and set
them alight.”

“Indeed?” I said, in an unintended imitation
of her accent.

“Quite,” she replied, giving me a look that
said she did not suffer fools, particularly of the American
wise-guy variety.

I signaled the waiter for a beer by elegantly
pointing a finger down my throat. Then I turned to the lady
psychiatrist with practiced sincerity. “Tell me about your work,
Dr. Metcalf. How do you treat these firebugs and murderers?”

“I 
study
 the psychopath,”
she said. “I want to know why he acts the way he does.”

“Or 
she
 does,” I added,
believing in equality of the sexes in all departments.

“The subject is so complex,” Pamela Metcalf
said, ignoring me. “We study the childhood antecedents to
murder—”

“Environment,” Charlie Riggs said.

“But we also know that there are
neurological, genetic, and biophysiological components, too.”

“The extra Y chromosome in men.” Charlie
nodded.

“Yes, we know the XYY abnormality is four
times more prevalent among murderers.”

“So are killers made or born?” I asked.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to determine
ever since I became fascinated with the Cotswolds Killer.”

I showed her my vague look. It comes
naturally.

“You know the section called the Cotswolds?”
she asked.

“The Catskills, I know …”

“In Oxfordshire, wonderful hilly sheep
country. I grew up there near Chipping Camden. I was still a
student when someone began killing farm girls. One near
Bourton-on-the-Water, one just outside Upper Slaughter.”

“Upper Slaughter,” Charlie muttered.

“Each of the girls had been strangled. Like
so many of them nowadays, each had been sexually active at age
fifteen or so, highly active, and their several boyfriends were
initially suspected.”

“Any of the boyfriends know both the girls?”
Charlie asked, still trying to earn his detective’s shield.

“No. And no strangers were implicated,
either. The crimes were never solved, and … well, it just got me
started.”

I thought about pretty Miss Metcalf scouring
the sylvan English countryside for clues of murder. The thought
didn’t last. The waiter brought my beer, and I ordered yellowtail
snapper broiled, some fried sweet plantains, and black beans with
rice. The pathologist and the psychiatrist were still carrying on,
regaling each other with tales of death and derangement.

“Dr. Riggs, I still can’t believe you’ve
retired. I’ve so enjoyed your articles.”

Charlie beamed. “Oh, I continue my
research. 
Vita non est vivere sed valere vita est
.
‘Life is more than merely staying alive.’”

She reached out and put a hand on his
shoulder. “For you, no 
taedium vitae
.“

They both laughed, and I managed a weak
smile. Maybe when I’m pushing sixty-five, women will fall all over
me, too. They kept trading war stories and Latin phrases, and I
kept popping the porcelain stoppers on sixteen-ounce Grolsches. I
was on my third bottle, letting a soft buzz take the edge off, when
I decided to break into the party. Having just been whacked by a
jury, scolded by a client, and ignored by a beautiful woman from
another continent, I figured there was very little to lose.

“Ah-chem,” I said.

No one seemed to notice my brilliant opening
line. Pamela Metcalf was still focused on the old coroner who,
until twenty minutes before, was my mentor and best friend.

“I was fascinated by your article on the
forensic aspects of strangulation,” Dr. Metcalf gushed.

“It had me all choked up,” I said, then took
a hit on the Grolsch.

Dr. Pamela Metcalfs emerald eyes shot me a
pitying look, then returned their full concentration to the bearded
wizard. “Your method for determining the time of death by assessing
the degree of postmortem lividity in a hanging victim was quite
helpful to homicide detectives.”

“Yep,” I offered, “the cops were at the end
of their rope.”

Charlie Riggs furrowed his brow, and the air
seeped further out of my ego. That peculiar macho known to all men
ached to haul out the trophies and merit badges, maybe tell her
about the days before I wore a blue suit and wingtip shoes. Hey,
lady, I once came off the bench to sack Terry Bradshaw on an
all-out blitz in a playoff game. 
Now playing at outside
linebacker, from Penn State, number fifty-eight, Jake
Las-siter!
 Maybe Charlie would ask me how the knees were
doing, and I could ease right into—

“Mr. Lassiter … Mr. Lassiter.”

The waiter was tapping me on the shoulder.
Now what? In fancy places they sometimes toss me out. But tonight I
was wearing socks 
and
 long pants, and neither was
required at Tugboat Willie’s.

“A policeman on the phone, Mr. Lassiter. Says
it’s urgent.”

I followed the waiter to an open alcove near
the kitchen. The air was pungent with fish and garlic. From behind
the swinging metal door, I heard the singsong of Creole mixed with
the clatter of dishes. A black cat with yellow eyes was pawing
through a garbage can, debating between grouper and dolphin for an
entree.

“Detective Alejandro Rodriguez here,” said
the unfamiliar voice on the phone. “Hold for State Attorney
Wolf.”

Ah, the accouterments of power. Using a
policeman—a detective no less—for a secretary. Probably calling to
rub it in. Nick Wolf had been so busy dispensing victory statements
to the press, he hadn’t even needled me after the verdict. I
waited, listening to the faint traffic noises that told me Wolf was
calling from his state-owned Chrysler.

“Jake, you did a helluva job for that fish
wrapper they call a newspaper,” Nick Wolf boomed.

“Maybe you can tell that to Symington Foote.
He thought I should have attacked when I played defense.”

“He’s an asshole. Downtown power-clique
country-club asshole. You low-keyed it, kept the damages down. A
savvy lawyer knows when to do that.”

I didn’t tell him I get my savvy from Marvin
the Maven.

Wolf paused, and so did I. We were out of
conversation, or so I thought.

“Jake,” he said finally, “I’d like you to
meet me at a homicide scene.”

“Should I have my alibi ready?”

He didn’t laugh. “Three seventy-five Ocean
Drive, South Beach, second floor. I need independent counsel to
head the investigation.”

“Why me?”

From somewhere at his end a police siren
wailed. “Because you’re honest and not plugged into any of the
political groups. I checked you out. Latin Builders, Save-Our-Guns,
English Only … nobody’s heard of you since you used to sit on the
bench for the Dolphins. I don’t even know if you’re a Democrat or
Republican.”

“Audubon Society.”

“Huh?”

“My only affiliation. Charlie Riggs and I
like to stomp through the Glades and look at the birds. Blue
herons, snowy egrets, roseate spoonbills. Makes you believe in a
Creator or at least a damn fortuitous Big Bang.”

“Charlie Riggs,” Wolf said, almost wistfully.
“Tell that old grave robber to stop in and see me sometime.”

“Tell him yourself. He’s about ten yards
yonder, putting away some key lime pie and amusing a British lady
psychiatrist with murder and mayhem.”

“Her name Metcalf?”

I looked around for a hidden camera. “You’re
getting some pretty good intelligence these days.”

“Lucky guess. I have a man waiting at her
hotel. She was one of the last people to see the decedent
alive.”

“This decedent have a name?”

“This line’s not secure. I’ll see you in
twenty minutes. Bring Riggs and the lady.”

When I returned to the table, Charlie was
halfway through the story of the widow whose first two husbands
died after eating kidney pie laced with paraquat. The third husband
was smart enough to refuse her cooking, but deaf enough not to move
when she rode the El Toro mower over the spot where he was
sunbathing.

Charlie looked up at me, a dab of whipped
cream stuck to his beard.

“Saddle up,” I said. “We been deputized.”

Retirees still sit on plastic rockers on the
front porches of the art-deco hotels. Hookers, fences, dealers,
TVs, pimps, chicken hawks, and runaways still stroll Ocean Drive,
hustling their wares. But the Yuppies have staked claims to South
Beach, spiffing up the old buildings with turquoise and salmon
paint, dressing themselves in bright, baggy cottons and silks, and
hovering on the perimeter of perpetual trendiness. Over the whine
of the window air conditioner is heard the agreeable hum of
European engineering as the young lawyers, brokers, accountants,
bankers, and journalists steer their Saabs, BMWs, and Volvos into
oceanfront parking lots.

Cafes and comedy clubs now occupy
once-abandoned storefronts. Stylish restaurants abound, strands of
pasta hanging on wooden rods like moss on forest trees. Saloons
with etched-glass mirrors and polished brass rails offer exotic
tropical drinks at outrageous prices. Fresh tuna is seared ever so
slightly on open grills. And for reasons inexplicable, a sushi bar
stands on every corner. Raw fish is fine for shipwreck victims, but
with all the crud floating in our waters, I prefer my seafood well
done.

The apartment building was built in the
1930s, which in Miami Beach qualified as an historic site. The
building had been empty for years, before the resurgence of South
Beach brought fresh money and fresher hucksters to town. The
newspapers coined the term “Tropical Deco" to describe the
renovated hotels and apartment buildings. This one was called
Flamingo Arms and consisted of a series of curved walls, glass
block, and cantilevered sunshades that looked like stucco eyebrows.
The paint was the color of a ripe avocado. Two metal flamingos
formed a grillwork on the front door, and the same motif was picked
up in the lobby with a mural of several of the pink birds
high-stepping through a fountain.

The three of us—the coroner, the shrink, and
the mouthpiece— were let in by a uniformed cop who recognized
Charlie Riggs. We climbed a winding staircase with a looping metal
railing to the second floor. It was a corner apartment facing Ocean
Drive with just a sliver of a view of the Fifth Street Beach. Nick
Wolf stood in a corner of the living room, his face drawn into a
tight mask. Whispering in his ear was a cop in plainclothes. Nick
Wolf shook his head and didn’t move. The cop came over to us.

“Alex Rodriguez,” he said, shaking my hand,
and nodding to Charlie Riggs and Pamela Metcalf. He looked just
right for a detective, which is to say he looked like your average
forty-two-year-old, middle-class man who sells power tools at
Sears. His dark hair was beginning to thin at the crown. He was of
average height, average weight, and average demeanor, except for
his nose, which, he later told me, had been head-butted one
direction by a drugged-out citizen and smashed the other way by his
partner’s errant nightstick while quelling a domestic dispute.

“I’m glad you’re here, Dr. Metcalf,”
Rodriguez said. “You too, Charlie. Lassiter, give Nick a minute.
Then he’ll talk to you. Now …”

He left it hanging there, and we all turned
toward a desk in a corner of the room where a young assistant
medical examiner was still snapping his photos. The ME nodded
toward Charlie but kept at his work. His pale hair was parted high
on his head and clipped short on the sides, a style favored by the
current crop of young professionals. In rebellion, I keep mine
unfashionably long and shaggy, and when in the company of callow
youth, I incessantly hum Joan Baez tunes. He wore a white lab coat
with a name tag. He didn’t look old enough to be a doctor, but I
figured, no matter what, he couldn’t kill the patient. His little
kit was open, and he had lined up his sketch pads, gloves, sponges,
plastic bags, thermometer, trowel, chalk, and tape recorder.

Charlie walked straight to the body. She wore
a black silk camisole and nothing else.

She was sprawled—legs akimbo—in her chair at
a desk.

Her head was jammed through a computer
monitor. The keyboard was pulled open.

Maybe Charlie Riggs was used to homicide
scenes. Maybe it was just another day at the office for him. But
not for me. The aftermath of violence chilled me. I didn’t know
this woman, didn’t even know her name. I had no sense of loss for a
loved one. I would not miss a laugh I had never heard. But I knew
someone—a mother, a lover, a friend—would cry out her name. And
somewhere, I knew, was someone who didn’t cry for anyone or
anything. Someone so foreign to me as to be unfathomable.