Act of Betrayal (11 page)

“I haven't spoken to the detectives today,” I said. “But not as far as I know.”

He shook his head solemnly. “How quickly the world forgets. And the runaway, the young man? Has he returned home?”

“No, but I'm working on new developments. There seem to be a number of missing teenagers who all fit the same pattern.”

“Incredible,” he murmured politely. “Your work must lead you down many fascinating paths.”

“Including this one.” I flashed a friendly smile. “Shouldn't Ron Sadler be sitting here with you? I'm not a political writer.”

He looked slightly surprised and paused for a moment. “But we are connected, you and I.” His voice dropped to a more intimate tone. “History binds us together. We have so much in common.”

“Actually,” I said skeptically, “we have little in common.”

He shook his head indulgently. “You are so like your father.”

I sat with my mouth open, stunned, wondering if I had heard right.

“Surely you knew.” He reached across his desk and pushed the stop button on my tape recorder. “Tony Montero and I were boyhood companions in Camaguey. We served together as young men, side by side, guerrillas in the Sierra Maestra.” His eyes took on a nostalgic look, as though steeped in memories. He pursed his lips. “We shared a prison cell at the Isle of Pines. We were
companeros.”

I caught my breath, fumbling, trying to collect my thoughts. “I had no idea…” A thousand questions crowded my mind.

He gazed at me intently, the softest of smiles playing around his sensual lips. “And Catherine. How is your mother? The beautiful Catalina. I see you favor blue as she always did.”

“You know my mother?” The image of worldly journalist, the veneer of sophistication I had tried so hard to achieve, crumbled.

“Ahhh,” he sighed, eyes alight. “No one could dance the
merengue
like your mother.”

My pen fell to the floor and my eyes crossed as I bent to pick it up.
Merengue?
My mother? Were we both thinking of the same woman here? Reyes could not have flabbergasted me more had he announced that he had killed JFK.

“You have her grace,” he continued. He perused me thoughtfully. “You possess so many of your mothers qualities.
Rubia, muy delicada.
But I have not heard you laugh. Her laugh always had a sound to it.
La musica.
”

I cleared my throat, puzzled. “She never mentioned you. I had no idea you knew my father. I was only three when he was killed.”

He nodded, expression pained. “I was there. We were captured. He died for Cuba. A hero. A martyr. I was to be next, but managed to escape two nights later. I have not seen Catalina for years, but I know she is well. Friends keep me informed. And, of course, I have always followed your career with great interest.”

“You knew who I was? That I worked for the paper?”

“El mundo es muy chiquito.
There are no secrets in Miami. I see my friend Tony in you, too. A writer—what he always wanted. He would be proud. He always kept a journal.”

“I've never read anything he wrote,” I said eagerly. This was all news to me.

“A pity.” He looked dismayed. “Catalina never shared his letters with you?”

“No.” Why hadn't she? I wondered.

Reyes stared at the ceiling, as though trying to remember. “Now, do I still possess Antonio's diary or was it given to your mother?”

“What diary?”

Hand to his forehead, he concentrated. “I am trying to recall what happened to the diary of your father. He kept it faithfully, in prison. I may have it. It belongs to the people.” Conviction strengthened his voice. “It should be published.”

“You're sure it exists?”

“Without doubt. I was in prison with Antonio for many months. No day passed that he did not speak of you and your mother and write for hours in that book of his. It survived, passed hand to hand after his … execution. His words kept hope alive for so many. Why can't I recall its whereabouts now? Perhaps locked in an old trunk with other mementos of those times. In a storage room here, or at my office. I will have my assistant try to locate it.” He snatched up a gold Mont Blanc pen and scribbled a quick note on a memo pad.

I was thrilled.

“Or”—he paused—” was it given to your mother?” He looked at me expectantly.

“I didn't even know it existed until now,” I said, shrugging, bewildered. “I'm sure I would have if my mother had it. She would have said…” Or would she?

“I hope you can find it,” I said with feeling. The book could be my bridge to the past, to the father lost so long ago. The possibility of seeing something written in his own hand, reading his words and learning his thoughts, thrilled me.

“He kept his diary like
The Gulag Archipelago
of Solzhenitsyn. When Cuba is free, the traitors whose names he wrote there must be tried for war crimes,” Reyes exclaimed. “This book is prima facie evidence. The world should know their names. It must be published, if it still exists.”

“I hope it does,” I told him.

“Leave it to me,” he said reassuringly. “We will find it.”

Reluctantly I steered the conversation back to our interview, switched on the recorder, and cleared up a few last questions, but my heart and mind were racing. My mother's angry silence about my father had frustrated me all my life.

“Of course I will be available to answer any further questions,” Reyes said. “And I will call you at once when I succeed in finding Antonio's diary.”

He walked me to the arched entranceway and we shook hands again. His eyes were alert and intense.

“Your earrings,” he commented.

“My mother gave them to me.”

“Yes.” He laughed with genuine pleasure. “Did she tell you where she got them?”

“No,” I said. “I think they're antiques.”

“Ask her,” he said, reminiscing. “About the days when they were crafted for a beautiful woman by the finest jeweler on the
Calle de Oro
in Havana.” His eyes were warm. “I am so proud,” he said, “as though you were my own daughter. You may have been born in Miami, but your heart is Cuban. Never forget your
cubania.
Remember me, please, to dear Catalina.”

“I'm sure she'll be pleased that you thought of her.” I smiled serenely and strolled sedately to my car, aware of his eyes on my back. The setting sun, a scarlet disk, shimmered on an indigo bay. The view was spectacular but a whiff of something bad, a sewer smell, stung my nostrils. Something blowing in off the bay. I pulled out of the driveway and proceeded through the electric gate. The guards had gone. Reyes stood alone, still watching, in front of his magnificent home.

The tires of the T-Bird crunched out onto the road. I rolled around the corner past the stately royal palms, out of his sight into the gentle dusk, then floored it and roared into the twilight like a bat out of hell.

I circled the parking lot, my frustration intensifying. My mother's convertible was not in its usual spot. No one answered the doorbell, so I pounded with the metal knocker until a door down the hall inched open and a reproving neighbor peered out. Where the hell was she when I needed answers? I slipped my card under her door and took the three flights of stairs down, too hyper to wait for the elevator. Disappointed and annoyed, I didn't want to go home. All that would make me feel alive was sex or work, and the only man I wanted was a thousand miles away. Thank God for the brightly lit newsroom.

Ron Sadler, who rarely worked late, was lurking.

He read the frustration on my face.

“I knew it. How bad was it?” he cried, scarcely concealing his jubilation. “He went crazy, right? Were you kicked the hell out?” He glanced at his watch. “Christ, where have you been all this time? Any way to salvage the piece?”

Ryan and two other reporters watched eagerly from their desks.

“Actually, Ron, I've spent the entire afternoon with Juan Carlos Reyes.” I smiled sweetly. “Great interview. The man is absolutely charming.”

Ron's eyes bugged behind his nonreflective lenses as his mouth opened in disbelief. “You're shitting me.” I could have sworn he was wearing pancake makeup.

I opened my bag, spilling the used tapes onto my desk. “The man's a pussycat.” I shrugged. “Didn't duck a single question.”

“Reyes?” Ryan broke the silence. “The one who punched out that CNN reporter?”

“Did you ask the tough questions, Britt?”

“All of them, Ron,” I said lightly. “I guess the police beat teaches you how to deal with people.” I took that shot because he and Gretchen are among those in the newsroom who look down on my job. They are so wrong; it has everything any writer could want. People stories, true grit, and heroes.

Before he left for a television taping, the two of them huddled across the newsroom, heads together.

I tried calling my mother, but her phone rang unanswered. Her machine didn't even pick up. Where was she? A faint rumble, a vibration underfoot, signaled that the presses were rolling with the next edition. In an uncertain world, the newspaper is a constant, something to hang on to.

Before tackling the tedious job of transcribing the tapes, I called Mrs. Goldstein and asked her to take Bitsy out. Seth answered, eager to know if there had been any murders and asking when he could come to the office again. He promised to give Bitsy a good workout. “Remember, she has short legs,” I warned. Then I checked my calls and found an urgent message from Lottie.

“You wont believe this!” she wailed.

“What?” I asked wearily.

“My flowers…”

“I know, I know. The most beautiful flowers on God's green earth. Lottie, I've got—”

“Listen!” she demanded. “I was adding some water and an aspirin today, you know, to give 'em a little boost and make 'em last longer. Guess what I found?”

“A snake?” Shoppers in several local garden departments had been bitten by poisonous snakes curled up in the potted plants, but I'd never heard of one in a florist's arrangement.

“Worse! I'd rather be snake-bit. It was a card. Guess what it says?”

“Lottie, I can't stand this. Just tell me. I'm hungry and frustrated. My life is passing before my eyes. I'm in no mood to play guessing games.”

“Let me read it:
‘With Deepest Sympathy for your loss. Good-bye Uncle Harry, we'll miss you.'
Signed,
‘Tom, Adrienne, and the kids'”

“Who the hell are they?” My right eyelid twitched and I felt the early drumroll of a headache.

“The bereaved! The poor souls who paid for the flowers that shyster stole from some funeral home. They looked a little peaked when he gave 'em to me.”

“Oh? I thought you said they were the most beautiful flowers on God's green earth. I could have sworn you said that. Maybe they fell off an ambulance he was chasing.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “His office! That's right. His damn office backs up on Evergreen Cemetery. I'm so mad I could bite myself!”

I wanted to say I couldn't believe Stosh would do such a thing, but I didn't. In fact, I could picture him climbing the fence.

Lottie shot art of Reyes the following day, and I met her afterward for a late lunch in the
News
cafeteria.

An apron-clad chef looked bored behind a steam table of peculiar-looking tacos topped by wilted lettuce. He wore a giant sombrero. I blinked when I saw him, then realized it must be Mexican Day. The cafeteria operators had resorted to themes to lure back employees who persist in leaving the building to eat somewhere, anywhere, else. They never try the most effective theme, good food. I once discovered carrots in the spaghetti sauce on Italian Day. Even Lottie, who loves Tex-Mex and laces everything liberally with Tabasco, eyed the taco special with suspicion. “Wanna go halvsies on a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich?” she murmured.

“I'm gonna stick to the soup.” I halfheartedly tossed some saltines onto my tray. “What's the word from the Polish Prince?”

“That sidewinder.” She sneered. “It was the back end of bad luck the day I set eyes on him. Don't git me started.”

“Sorry. How'd things go with Reyes?”

She looked pleased. “Made a great portrait of him on his yacht, the
Libertad.
Beautiful boat, but he's mad as hell at the city. Sewer pipe must have backed up and the smell behind his place is rank.” Her eyes danced as she settled in the chair opposite me. “Reyes came on to you, didn't he?”

“Hell, no,” I said.

“Well, that man is definitely hot to trot.” She batted her eyes coquettishly as she sipped her tea. “All he did was ask questions about you. He wanted to know everything.”

“Did he mention my mother?”

“Your mother?” Her freckled face screwed into a puzzled scowl.

I nodded. “He knew her and my father, years ago. The man practically drools at the mention of her name.”

“Didn't know he was a friend of the family.”

“Join the club. It was a surprise to me.” I told her everything.

“Think he and your mama were sweeties years ago, a little hanky-panky? He had to be gorgeous then. He ain't bad now.” She leaned back in her chair, eyes wide. “Lordy, Britt, that rich and powerful hombre might be your daddy.”

“Oh, swell, thank you very much. My mother thanks you, too.”

“Better than a sharp stick in the eye,” she said, chewing. “What's to hate about having a real live politically connected millionaire in the family? You could be Cuba's first daughter or, if he has his way, the crown princess. Who would mind being a tadpole in that gene pool? You notice that strong jaw? Won't find no narrow-eyed, inbred young ‘uns there.” She bit into the second half of her sandwich.

“Be serious.” I sighed, pushing away my soup bowl. “I'd give anything to read my father's diary. I've always felt we were connected.”

“What's your mama say?”

“Can't even find her. I've been trying to reach her since last night.”

“That's sure a turnabout,” she said. “Who knows what happened all those years ago? What if it wasn't Tony Montero?” Once Lottie locks onto a subject she's as dogged as a pit bull with his teeth in a bone. “Your real daddy could be some furniture salesman from Atlanta—or the next
presidente
of Cuba.”

“Come on, Lottie, you make my family history sound like some soap opera or one of those doorstop novels. I've just always wanted to know what happened to my father, what happened back then, and why my mother is so uptight.”

“Ain't no future in the past,” she said, blotting mustard off her lower lip with a paper napkin.

“Ignoring it is like running from your own shadow. I help solve other people's mysteries all the time but I've neglected my own, and it's important to me.”

She nodded. “Gotcha. Photographers' kids have no baby pictures. Shoemakers' kids got no shoes. But hell all Friday, Britt, tons of folks have no clue who their daddies were and do just fine. At least most of 'em.” She paused and looked pensive, probably recalling a recent high-profile case, a man, adopted at birth, who searched for his biological parents, tracked them to Miami, and beat them to death with a pipe wrench.

“It's hard to explain,” I said. “Mine left a big void in my life, yet he's always there. As though he's trying to tell me something. Like we are one, always together.”

“That ‘ud give me the bijeebees.”

“It's now or never,” I said. “Time is running out. The world he lived in is disappearing fast. So are the people who knew him. They're not getting any younger.”

“None of us are. But I'm with you, Britt, if there's any way I can help.”

I smiled. I've always wanted a sister like Lottie.

I called the White House and was told by the political director that Juan Carlos Reyes was considered a loyal party member and fund-raiser and a valuable spokesman for the Cuban-American community. The President had met him during his first campaign swing through Florida. Now Reyes was a member of the Committee to Re-elect the President.

I also talked to the assistant secretary of state for Inter-American affairs, the former chief of the U.S. Interests Section in Havana, three Cuban-American congressmen from South Florida, and a spokesman for the Cuban-American Foundation. Despite pointed questions and prodding, the worst anybody would say on the record was that he seemed to have an ego problem. Don't all politicians?

I searched property, corporate, and court records. Reyes's holdings were vast, from a former upstate training camp for would-be freedom fighters, to shopping malls, a downtown arcade, office buildings, apartment houses, and supermarkets. All his business partners seemed legit, without criminal records. He seemed to sue mote than he was sued, but the lawsuits he was involved in were no more than those generated by the average tycoon.

A rough draft of my story ran long, 120 inches, and I wasn't comfortable that Ron and Gretchen insisted on seeing it before I had time to tighten and polish. I had still had no feedback from them when Fred Douglas stopped by my desk.

“Good job, Britt. Your piece on Reyes will be the centerpiece of the section. Needs some trimming, but I've never seen Reyes so quotable. Seemed almost human. Lots of things in there I didn't know about him.” He looked at me speculatively. “We should do this more often. Swap reporters around on different beats from time to time, bring in somebody with new eyes.”

Oh no. “Once I wrap this up,” I said quickly, before he got any ideas, “I have to get back out on the beat and finish my story on those missing teenagers.”

He nodded absently, forgetting his former reservations.

Soon after, Ron Sadler sidled up to my desk like a crab. “Nice piece.” He hesitated. “Reyes never talked for publication before about his plans to seek Cuban membership in the free trade agreement or his Bay of Pigs experiences. How'd you worm that stuff out of him?”

Lowering his voice, he gave me a smarmy grin. “What'd you do, sleep with the guy?”

I resisted taking a swat at him, didn't want makeup on my knuckles. “Ron, do you sleep with every woman you interview?”

“That's entirely different,” he said self-righteously. “I'm a married man, with a family. You know, you're ambitious and unattached. These macho Latinos always go for younger women.”

“Get away from my desk! Talking to you gives me whiplash.” Heads turned as my voice rose. He glanced around, embarrassed, aware we were being watched. “Don't get pissed. You know me, Britt. I was just kidding.”

“You heard me! Beat it, before I slap you silly.”

He slunk off and went to confer with Gretchen.

Later I told Lottie what he had said.

“I'll be go-to-helled,” she said, “he sounds like a good ol' boy from twenty years ago. What's happened to him?”

“I dunno, Lottie. He used to be a nice guy.”

“TV sure has changed that fellow. I never trust a man whose manicure is better than mine.”

I took my transcripts and a printout home, to avoid further aggravation. No way. A stranger's car occupied my parking space. I unlocked my mailbox hoping for a letter from Kendall McDonald and found somebody else's mail instead. Mostly junk. Where was mine? Was some pervert pawing through my new Victoria's Secret catalog? Was my love letter from Kendall McDonald being held up to a light or steamed open by some voyeur? At least my darling pets would be glad to see me. I stepped inside and called warmly to them.

Bitsy had ripped Billy Boots's favorite catnip toy to shreds all over my freshly cleaned carpet. Billy Boots, obviously stressed as a result, had upchucked a fur ball and what looked like the remains of my spider plant. The sluggish room air conditioner seemed to be blowing hot air instead of cool and my bedroom was a furnace. Too late to disturb the Goldsteins. No repairs could be done at this hour.

I played my messages. No word from my mother or McDonald. I fed the animals and foraged in the freezer until I gave up and simply stood in front of it with the door open. The only cool place in the apartment. I would have remained indefinitely except for Bitsy, who brought me her leash and skittered around my feet, eager to go out.

The night air was a muggy slap. The depression had developed into a tropical storm somewhere between Africa and the Caribbean but nothing stirred here, not even a wisp of a breeze. Miami's late August is superheated, supercharged, an atmosphere in which people have been known to commit murder for the seat closest to the floor fan.

New York and Chicago have winter windchill factors but we have a summer discomfort index. Computed by the combined heat/humidity peaks, it currently hovered at 111.