In the purple living room, two men, definitely Latins, with their hands and feet bound with copper wire, were face down on the floor. They had both been shot in the back of the head, and their faces were unrecognizable. A dark-haired young woman wearing a black-and-white maid's uniform, complete with a white frilly cap, had been shot in the hallway that led to the kitchen. Her hands and feet were also bound with copper wire. A small boy, two, or possibly three years old, had been shot in the head, but the child did not have his hands and feet bound. He was in the sunken bathtub in the rose-tiled bathroom on the second floor.

  There was considerable activity in the townhouse. The forensic crew was busy. Two technicians were dusting for fingerprints, and another man was taking flash photographs from various angles. The ME, Dr. Merle Evans, was sitting at the glass-topped wrought-iron table in the dining room and writing notes on his clipboard.

  The lady of the house, who had been out shopping at the Kendall Lakes Mall, said that she had returned to find her husband, her brother, the boy, and her maid dead. A Colombian with only rudimentary English, she had become hysterical. When he arrived, Doc Evans had given her a shot and sent her in an ambulance to the American Hospital emergency room.

  After a quick initial look at the scene, Hoke Moseley and Bill Henderson had knocked on the nearby doors in the Tahitian Village, dividing up the townhouses, asking questions, and now they were comparing notes.

  "No one I talked to," Henderson said, "heard or saw anything."

  "I didn't do any better. These people here apparently kept to themselves, and I couldn't find anyone who knew or talked to them. They spoke Spanish and nothing else. Sometimes, in the morning, the maid took the little boy to the pool, but the adults never used the pool. And that's where the people of this complex get acquainted. A Colombian corporation, the manager told me, owns this townhouse, pays all the bills and the maintenance, and people just come and go. When they come, they've got a letter in Spanish authorizing their stay, and he hands over the keys. When they leave, one of them returns the keys. He's never had any trouble with any of the tenants, he claims. They're always nice, quiet tenants, or so he says."

  "Did he have their names?"

  "No. The letter he showed me just said to admit the bearers for an extended stay. I don't read Spanish, but he does, and that's what the letter said."

  "He wouldn't lie about something like that," Henderson said, "but we can check it out, anyway. There had to be at least four shots, but no one heard even one. I can't get over that."

  "Maybe it's a good thing they didn't hear the shots and come running out. Chances are, they'd be dead, too."

  "Somebody had to hear something. They just don't want to get involved, that's all."

  Doc Evans joined them. "They've been dead about two hours. That may not be exact, but from the body temperatures, I'm not far off."

  Hoke nodded. "That coincides with what the woman said. She was gone for about two hours, and they were all alive when she left. I hope you can find some evidence of heroin when you open 'em up, doe. There's no dope in the apartment. Without some indication of dope, we can't say positively that the killings are drug-related. We can say that we think they are, but that isn't the same. If they're dope-related, nobody gives a shit, but if this was a murder-robbery, all these folks living out here'll get panicky."

  "It's obviously a professional job," Doc said. "Too bad about the kid, though. At his age, he couldn't've identified anybody anyway."

  "Colombian drug families are like that, doc," Henderson said. "They kill everyone in the family. They have to do it. If they hadn't killed the boy, someday, as a man, he'd kill them. When can I talk to the woman at the hospital?"

  "Any time. She'll be a little dopey, but she can talk now. Why?"

  "I've got a theory. I think she knew the killers. I also think they killed these people here, and then she drove them to the airport to catch a plane. Then she drove back here to report the bodies. As soon as she knew they were safely away, she called the department."

  "Jesus, Bill," Hoke said, "you don't seriously believe that a mother would help the killers of her own child get away, do you?"

  "Well, how do we know it's her child? Life is cheap for those fuckers in Colombia. They might've brought the kid along with that plan in mind all along. Anyway, that's what I think, and I've got another reason besides. I'll take Martinez along to use as an interpreter."

  "Why not? I'll wait here. I asked Kossowski from Narcotics to get a warrant so we can search her Caddy. She went shopping, she said, but I didn't see any packages in the car. If there's nothing in the trunk, your theory might be better than I think it is right now. Anyway," Hoke finished, "after we search the car, I'll call you at American."

  "I'm going to lean on her." Henderson got to his feet. "Maybe their passports are in the trunk, too. There's not a scrap of ID in the house."

  "The killers probably took the passports. But go ahead. You're bound to find out more than we know now."

  Kossowski, together with an assistant state attorney, arrived a few minutes later with a search warrant for the purple Cadillac. Kossowski and Hoke searched the car. The car was leased, not owned, and was very clean. There was nothing in the trunk except for a set of tools. There was a neatly folded map of Miami in the glove compartment and a well-chewed cigar butt in the ashtray. There were no pen or pencil markings on the map.

  "This kind of search doesn't mean much, Hoke," Kossowski said. "When I get it downtown and take it apart, if there's a single grain of horse I'll find it."

  "Take it, then. I think Henderson's on to something."

  Hoke called the American Hospital and had Henderson paged. He was in the emergency room.

  "Bill," Hoke said, "the car, on a perfunctory search here, was clean. I told Kossowski to take it downtown for a vacuum job. There were no packages in the trunk. It might be a good idea for you to twist this woman's arm."

  "I've been trying, but all I get is nunca, like it was the only word she knows."

  "Find out what her husband and brother were doing in Miami."

  "They were on vacation, she said."

  "That isn't good enough."

  "Martinez told me we should threaten to take her out to Krome to the alien detention camp and turn her over to the INS. She has no papers, and as an illegal alien, a few days living with those Haitian women out there might get her to talking."

  "Don't just threaten her. If she won't say anything, take her out there and let the INS have her. Tell them she might harm herself, and they can slap her in solitary for a couple of days."

  "As soon as we can get her out of emergency and into a private room, I'll be able to get tougher. There's no problem getting her a room--she's got nine hundred dollars in her purse. The hospital'll be glad to give her a private room until her money runs out."

  "Whatever you decide, Bill, it's okay by me. Evans is taking the bodies now, and the forensic crew's almost finished. I'll wait around and seal up the townhouse, and check with the morgue later. Then I'll call you."

  Two hours later, Hoke stopped at a restaurant in Kendall Lakes. He had eaten his usual diet breakfast (one poached egg, one slice of dry toast, and coffee) but nothing since. It was almost four-thirty when he looked over the menu of Roseate Spoon Bill of Fare, a popular short-order restaurant in the rambling shopping center. When it came to eating, Hoke had a major problem. He had lost weight the year before, dropping from 205 to 185 pounds, and he wanted to keep it off, but at the same time he was always hungry. He could stick to his diet for two days at most, and then he went overboard on meat and mashed potatoes. With his new teeth, he could chew almost anything.

  After a prolonged study of the wide-ranging menu, he decided to compromise. He ordered a Spanish omelet with cottage cheese instead of french fries, a dish of applesauce, and told the waitress to hold the toast.

  While he waited, Hoke leafed through his notebook and tried to organize his thoughts. He crossed out the name of Ronald I. France. He could do nothing to help him; the grand jury had decided to prosecute this old man for shooting and killing a twelve-year-old boy who had ripped up his flower bed. The old man was seventy-two years old, and he had cried when Hoke had taken him in for booking. According to the neighbors, he had been a nice old man, but killing a kid for ripping up a flower bed had been too drastic. It didn't help that Mr. France had claimed he only wanted to wound the kid a little with his twelve-gauge shotgun. If that had been the case, why had he loaded the gun with double-aught shells? But Hoke didn't cross out the -address- of Mr. France. Sides had been taken in the neighborhood, and Mrs. France, also seventy-two, was going to get some harassment.

  Marshall Fisher--a DOA--suicide. That was cut-and-dried, but there was going to be an inquest, and he'd have to appear. He made a check mark to watch his in box for a notice on Fisher.

  There were three convenience-store killings under investigation, but no leads. Signs were posted in English and Spanish in all the convenience stares, stating that the managers were only allowed to have $35 in the cash register. But the Cuban managers were killed by Cuban gunmen for the $35. American prisons didn't frighten Marielito criminals; after Castro's, American prisons were country clubs. And when a witness to a killing was found, which was seldom, he was too scared to point out the killer.

  When Hoke ran across the address, "K.P.T.--157 Ave.-- 6--418E," he was puzzled for a few moments. Not only was he hungry but he had a lot on his mind. There was no name, and he didn't know anyone who lived out this far in Kendall. Then he recalled that this was Susan Waggoner's address. Inasmuch as 157th Avenue was Dade County, and not Miami Police Department territory, Hoke rarely got this far west. All of West Kendall came under Metro Police jurisdiction.

  Hoke was curious about this peculiar couple, and especially the jock, although he didn't believe for a second that Susan had ordered "Junior Mendez" to break her brother's finger. She had seemed too dimwitted even to entertain the idea, but still, it wouldn't hurt anything to talk to her while he was out this way. He might pick up some information on the boyfriend. If they were college students studying for degrees in management, maybe he and Henderson should enroll in a seminary and work on doctor of divinity degrees.

  The tall unfinished buildings in Kendall Pines Terrace reminded Hoke of the Roman apartment houses he had seen in Italian neorealist movies. The Salvadoran guard on the gate explained how to get to Building Six, and Hoke took the winding road to the last parking lot, avoiding the speed bumps by going around them on the grass. He parked in a visitors' slot to avoid being towed away--as advised by the gatekeeper--and rode the elevator to the fourth floor.

  Susan opened the door on the first knock, having a little difficulty with the new deadbolt lock, which was still stiff.

  "I don't have much to tell you, Miss Waggoner," Hoke said. "But I was out this way, so I thought I'd drop by for a few minutes and talk to you."

  Susan was wearing a black dress with hose and black pumps. She had also applied some rouge to her cheeks and wore pink lipstick. There was a string of imitation pearls around her thin neck. The dress was too big for her, and she reminded Hoke of a little girl playing dress-up in her mother's clothes.

  "Would you like a beer, sergeant? Coffee?"

  "No, no. Thanks, but I just had lunch."

  "Lunch? It's almost five-thirty."

  "An early dinner, then. I missed lunch, actually, so I had something just now at the Roseate Spoon Bill."

  "I go there a lot. I like the Mexican pizza."

  "I've never tried that."

  "It's really good. Lots of cheese."

  "I'll try it some time. Your father came in this morning, Miss Waggoner, and he claimed the two hundred dollars."

  "He would."

  "But we're going to hold on to the effects for a while. I was going to call the Krishnas today, but I've been busy with other things. Has your father contacted you today?"

  Susan shook her head. "He won't, either. But I don't plan on going to the funeral, anyway."

  "He said he was going to cremate your brother and scatter the ashes on Lake Okeechobee."

  "Martin would like that. He always liked the lake."

  "Your father's staying at the Royalton, downtown, if you want to call him."

  "I don't."

  "Where's Mendez?"

  "Who?"

  "Ramon. Your fiancé?"

  "Oh, Junior, you mean. His name is Ramon Mendez, Junior, but he always goes by Junior. He hates to be called Ramon."

  "How'd you happen to meet him?"

  "We met in English class at Dade. He helped me write my haikus. I was having trouble with them."

  "Haikus? What are they?"

  "It's some kind of Japanese poem."

  "I see. So you met at school and got engaged."

  "That's right. But now we have what's called a platonic marriage."

  "He lives here with you, then?"

  "He should be home soon. If you want to ask questions about Junior, you should talk to him."

  "What smells so good?"

  "That's dinner. I'm cooking stuffed pork chops. I use StoveTop dressing, shallots, and mushrooms, all smothered in brown gravy. Also, baked sweet potatoes, peas, and a tomato and cucumber and onion salad. Do you think I should make hot biscuits?"

  "Does Junior like biscuits?"

  "I really don't know. I've got white bread, but I think I'll fix some. Most men like hot biscuits. Would you like to stay for dinner?"

  "I've already eaten. I told you. You've got a lovely apartment here, Miss Waggoner."

  "Oh, I don't own it. I rent it, furnished."

  "It must be rough on you, working and going to school, too."

  "It isn't so bad. The work at the International Hotel isn't hard, and I don't have to work at night."

  "What are you--a maid?"

  "Oh, no!" Susan laughed. "Maids only get minimum wage. I get fifty dollars a trick, and split it down the middle with Pablo. I'm one of Pablo Lhosa's girls. That is, I was, but I quit. Now that we've got a platonic marriage, Junior doesn't want me to work for Pablo anymore."

  "You're a hooker, then?"

  "I thought you knew. You aren't going to arrest me, are you?"

  "No, that isn't my department. I just work homicides. I guess I've been lucky so far. I was with the Riviera Police Department for three years, and I've been in Miami for twelve, and I've never had to work Vice. When d'you expect Junior home?"

  "When he gets here. It doesn't make any nevermind to me. The pork chops are in the Crockpot, and the other stuff won't take long. The potatoes are already done. He said he'd be home at six, but he might be late."

  Hoke handed her one of his cards. "Have Junior call me when he gets home tonight. It says the Eldorado Hotel, in Miami Beach, but I'm reachable there. If the phone isn't answered right away, tell him to let it ring. There's only one man on the desk at night, and if he's away from the desk it takes a little time to get an answer. Somebody'll answer eventually."

  "All right. I'll tell him, but that doesn't mean he'll call you."

  "Just tell him I've been looking through some mug books."

  "Mug books?"

  "He'll know what I mean." Hoke went to the door.

  "Sergeant Moseley? You didn't tell daddy about the car, did you?"

  Hoke shook his head. "No. He didn't ask, and I didn't volunteer."

  The traffic was heavy on North Kendall and heavier on Dixie, where Hoke turned toward downtown. It was after seven by the time Hoke reached LeJeune Road. He stopped for gas and made a phone call to the duty officer in Homicide, leaving a message for Sergeant Henderson to call him at home. He made another call to the morgue and learned that they did not plan to start the past-mortems on the Colombians until the next day, probably late in the afternoon. He paid for the gas, put the receipt in his notebook, and decided to go home. He could work on his report in the morning. Perhaps by then Henderson would have something from the woman's testimony.

  Hoke took the MacArthur Causeway to South Beach but decided to stop for a boilermaker at Irish Mike's before going home. Mike brought him the shot of Early Times and a Miller's draft, then waited until Hoke downed the shot and took a sip of beer.

  "I suppose you'll be wanting this on the tab, sergeant?"

  "Yeah, and one more shot besides. I've still got enough beer."

  "D'you know what your tab is?"

  "No, you tell me."

  "It was eighty-five bucks." Mike poured another shot into Hoke's glass. "Not countin' these two."

  "I didn't know it was that much."

  "That's what it is, sergeant. When it hits a hundred I'm gonna eighty-six you till you pay the whole tab. I wouldn't object to something on account right now."

  "I wouldn't mind giving you something on account, Mike, but I'm a little short right now. I'll bring in fifty on payday, but don't let it run up so high again."

  "I'm not the one that runs it up--you are."

  Mike went into the back, and Hoke quickly downed the second shot, finished the beer, and left the bar. He was depressed enough already without being hit for an $85 bar tab. Hoke didn't drink all that much, but when he wanted a drink he hated to drink alone in his room. Fortunately, he had a battle of El Presidente at home. This was one time when he would have to keep himself company.

  Hoke got into his car and drove to the Eldorado Hotel.

  11

  Before leaving Kendall Pines Terrace, Freddy had locked the pistol in the glove compartment and spread the city map of Miami out on the passenger's seat. He turned east on Kendall and took the Homestead Extension Freeway north toward the city. The traffic didn't get heavy until he turned east again on the Dolphin Expressway toward the airport. By watching the overhead signs carefully, he avoided the lane that would have taken him across the causeway to Miami Beach and managed to bluff his way into the left lane that took him down to Biscayne Boulevard. He was astonished by the erratic driving on the freeway. If they drove this way in Los Angeles, he thought, most of these people would have been killed within minutes. Freddy didn't consider himself a goad driver, but compared to these Miami drivers he was a professional.