“You owe me,” I croaked. Dawn was more than an hour away. Not even a glimmer of light cracked the eastern sky. Lottie's face glowed with anticipation. She wore sea green, striking with her red hair, and looked as happy as I've ever seen her.
We drove into the darkness on the soaring bridge to the port, the giant neon guitar atop the Hard Rock Cafe at Bayside a predawn beacon to our right, huge cruise ships to our left. I found the terminal, where passengers were already being welcomed by a steel band.
“There he is!” Lottie said, spotting Stosh as he parked his shiny black Jaguar. Tall and lean, he wore a slightly rumpled loose-fitting linen sports jacket, designer shades folded in the breast pocket, over a silk T-shirt and lightweight slacks. He did cut a dashing figure. But as he scanned the crowd for Lottie, he looked tense, as though he hadn't slept much, like a man burning the candle at both ends. His wit and quick mind that never ceased calculating the angles, coupled with his longish blond hair and intense pale blue eyes that grew hungry when he spoke to women, all gave him a certain fey charm. But his chin struck me as weak. So did his character.
We waved and he approached with a long-legged stride, his restless eyes inspecting the other arrivals. He kissed Lottie on the cheek, winking at me over her shoulder as he put his arm around her.
“Coffee, coffee,” he muttered. “Take me to some coffee.”
“They'll feed us a sumptuous breakfast right after we board,” she promised, gazing at him as though he were the only man in the world.
“Bon voyage, you two,” I said. “Have fun, the weather report says its gonna be a great day out there.” The storm was more than seventeen hundred miles to the southeast. Residents of Barbados and the French West Indies on the Caribbean's eastern rim were beginning to heed advisories and batten down the hatches, just in case.
The passengers boarded through an arch of bobbing red, blue, and green balloons at the foot of the gangway. The ship's photo concessionaire was shooting color stills to hawk later on the cruise. A splash of light bathed the happy couple as the camera's flash froze them forever in time. Would future grandchildren treasure it some day? It's the lack of sleep, I told myself as I drove west across the high bridge at first light, directly toward Freedom Tower. I was becoming as romantic as Lottie.
Instead of sacking out for an hour, I went to the beach and ran south along the surf toward Government Cut, the shipping channel from the Port of Miami to the deep blue Gulf Stream and the open sea. Summer clouds, low, white, and fluffy, banked the horizon and the smooth surface of the ocean sparkled with scattered diamonds.
Breathing hard and soaked with perspiration, I stood at South Pointe and watched from the jetty as the big white cruise ship glided east toward Africa. Of course it would make a U-turn after a stop at Freeport in the Bahamas and be back late tonight. I squinted at the ant-sized passengers clustered along the rails on the upper deck. With binoculars I would have been able to spot Lottie and Stosh. Those two would stand out in any crowd.
I waved anyway, then went home. Mr. Goldstein said he was giving up on my air conditioner and promised a brand-new one, installed by the time I got home that night.
I drank a glass of orange juice, showered, dressed, and studied the picture of my father with his old comrades before I left. The copy Lottie had shot was now simply framed and hung in my living room. If I was ever to read his diary of those times, I decided, I would have to find it myself. Bravo insisted it was in the possession of some newly arrived rafter who might or might not actually exist. Reyes claimed it was tucked away among his musty relics of the past. Like those associated with most Cuban exile (actions, each accused the other of lying. Who was the liar, and why? If Reyes didn't have it, why would he have mentioned it to me in the first place?
After our wild ride the day before, I probably wouldn't be tete-a-teteing with Jorge Bravo anytime in the immediate future, if he had one. At least not if I could help it,
Luckily my beat was not busy, the only story that of a two-hundred-pound woman in trouble. After a night of drinking and arguing with her one-hundred-twenty-pound boyfriend, she had passed out and fallen on him. When she awoke she found him crushed to death beneath her. She told police it was an accident. Arrested for manslaughter and overcome by grief, she fell back in a dead faint, pinning to the wall the officer attempting to handcuff her. Four other cops fought to free him as he screamed, “Get her off me! Get her off me!”
I went back to the office, pounded out the story, then called Reyes. Gilda, his secretary, said he was out and would not be in the office all day. As I wondered whether I was being blown off, she added that he was addressing a luncheon meeting of Cuban business leaders at the Intercontinental Hotel, and then had trade commission meetings scheduled with out-of-town associates at the Sofitel Hotel near the airport. His schedule was jammed until after an 8
P.M
. interview with Telemundo, the Spanish-language television channel.
“If you really want to catch him,” she confided, her tone warm and friendly, “your best bet would be at the luncheon, before or after his talk. You will find him in the Grand Ballroom.”
“Think he'd mind?”
“For you, Ms. Montero? Not at all.”
The Intercontinental stands like a sentinel on the bay, at Chopin Plaza, once the site of a concert bandshell. Flags from a host of nations hung limp in the hot, muggy air as I searched for a parking meter. I hate leaving the T-Bird with a valet, even though that strip of meters delivers a notoriously fast count to hapless motorists, who pay a quarter for a scant fifteen minutes and usually wind up with eighteen-dollar parking tickets anyway.
Add this to traffic jams, voice mail, and the heat, and it's a wonder that more people don't buy high-powered rifles and barricade themselves in tall buildings.
I overfed the meter and walked through the huge lobby, airy, full of greenery and the vibrant work of Florida artists. The paintings made me think of Vanessa Clower, although none looked like her work. An entire wall of the high-ceilinged Grand Ballroom was glass with a view of Biscayne Bay and the port.
Before seeing him, I heard the mellifluous voice of Juan Carlos Reyes. He stood at the podium, in front of a microphone, addressing an overflow crowd seated in metal chairs, as waiters in an adjacent room placed breadbaskets, napkins, and water glasses on the luncheon tables.
I stood quietly near the draped entrance to listen. His dark eyes roved the room, adding to the intensity of his words. Before I could even pick up the gist of his comments, something about lessons learned in his youth in military school in Cuba, his eyes swept across my side of the room, then quickly returned, focusing his powerful gaze upon me. His white teeth flashed in an intimate smile and a few members of his audience glanced curiously my way.
“I must interrupt my prepared comments,
mis amigos,
for we have an unexpected and honored guest in our midst.”
I looked over my shoulder. Nobody there. Flushed, I fought the urge to hotfoot it right out the door. I must have looked like a startled rabbit caught in headlights. Our eyes locked. He was talking about me, to me.
“Our brother Antonio Montero, who fought against the tyranny of Fidel Castro and communism and died for Cuba, has remained with us always, in spirit. Executed by Fidel's firing squad, he now lives on among us in the flesh.” Reyes's deep and passionate voice picked up fire and volume as he gestured toward me.
“Ãsta es la hija de Tony Montero.
Because of Castro she grew up without her father. But he would be proud of her, as we should be.
“She is our daughter now,” he boomed, arms outstretched. “
Ella es nuestra hija ahora.”
I swallowed, as they began to applaud and cheer, louder and louder, as they got to their feet, standing to attention, some saluting, placing their hands over their hearts.
This was totally beyond the realm of my experience. Tears stung my eyes. Nobody cheers for police reporters. I am far more accustomed to running for my life from the good citizens of Miami when they are hurling rocks and bottles, or arguing with cops who threaten to arrest me at crime scenes.
The tribute seemed endless. I stared at the floor. Then, unconsciously mimicking my father's pose in Bravo's photo, I raised my head and stared boldly back at Reyes. He looked startled for a moment, but his voice gave no hint.
“His daughter,” his electronically enhanced voice whispered over the din, “our daughter now.”
I wished my mother could have been there, could have heard. I wished I had been more fashionably dressed instead of in my slacks, shirt, and old navy blazer. I retreated to the ladies' room to blow my nose and wipe my eyes. By the time I returned to the Grand Ballroom, everyone was being seated for lunch. Ripples of applause followed as I skirted the tables and approached Reyes, now surrounded by local politicians and influential businessmen. I thanked him on behalf of my father; he smiled warmly and invited me to join him.
“I must get back to work,” I said, declining. “I hoped for a quote on your feelings about the AFC raid on the Cuban coast.”
“An unfortunate situation,” he said solemnly. “The end is near for Castro, and emotions run strong in our exile community. But our actions must reflect intelligence and a respect for the laws of this country.”
Those around him seemed to agree.
“And,” I added quietly as the others found their seats, “I wondered if your assistant had determined whether or not he can locate my father's diary. Bravo insists it recently arrived in Miami with some rafter.”
Reyes lifted his eyebrows, sadly shaking his head. “The ravings of a lunatic. You have seen the results of his handiwork. His motives are inexplicable. But I have good news. Wilfredo left me a memo this morning. He has been studying inventory lists and believes that the files and boxes we seek are in the warehouse. It was used for storage during the transition when we moved to our larger offices.” He glanced at his watch. “He planned to personally go there this afternoon.”
My heart leaped. “Thank you,” I said fervently. “This means a great deal to me.” He kissed my hand, eyes boring into mine.
Still riding high, I found a message from Hal waiting when I got back to the office. I decided to call him after the parents' meeting that night, when we would have time to talk. Suddenly hungry, I ate a
News
cafeteria tuna sandwich at my desk while writing the follow on Bravo's incursion into Cuban waters.
I answered some mail, reread my missing-boy stories and all my notes, then headed out to the Randolph house. The streets sweltered with shimmering heat radiating upward from the pavement. I envied Lottie and Stosh, cruising a calm summer sea surrounded by sky and clouds.
The Randolphs lived in Miami Shores, in a modest home with a flat roof, a lush green lawn, green shutters, and creeping vines on a latticework arbor framing the carport. A spacious screened L-shaped Florida room wrapped around the side of the house and was comfortably furnished in white wicker, but too hot to use this time of year.
The meeting took place in the living room-dining room area. Cassie had brewed a large sweaty pitcher of iced tea and there was an industrial-sized coffee urn that suspiciously resembled the one in the waiting room at the Quicky Lube her husband managed.
“Are you hungry?” Cassie asked. “I have cake and doughnuts for later, and Andrea Vitale is bringing cookies.” I bet I know what kind, I thought.
Charles's dog, Duke, who must have claimed some golden retriever or Irish setter in his lineage, barked halfheartedly each time the doorbell rang, then padded dutifully to the door, claws clicking on the terrazzo floor.
He would sniff each new arrival, then return to his mat near the kitchen door, gazing at us balefully as if to say that no matter how many people arrived, the most important one was still missing. I wondered how long dogs remember. I was sure that Bitsy still grieved for Francie.
The Metro-Dade police department had sent a representative, a dapper, clear-eyed young detective named Simmons.
Vanessa Clower wore a figure-hugging white cotton jumpsuit and strings of multicolor beads. Her ex-husband, Edwin, arrived five minutes after she did and sat next to her on the floral cotton couch. He wore a suit, a tie, and a hopeful expression.
One out-of-town family, the parents of Watson Kelly from Gary, Indiana, was represented by the fathers cousin, a postal worker in Holiday, a Tampa suburb. He had driven across the state for the meeting.
“They're grasping at straws,” he said, speaking of the missing boy's parents. “They said to tell you all that they're willing to come down if you think there is something, anything, that they can do here.”
That last collect call from their son had come from a pay phone at a downtown shopping arcade, a former movie theater, gutted and rebuilt into a miniplaza with electronics and health food stores, card and souvenir shops, and fast-food outlets.
Emily and Michael Kearns sat in chairs six feet apart, rarely connecting with a look or a word. When they spoke it was to someone else, not each other. He looked fidgety and uncomfortable, while she appeared almost unnaturally chipper and eager. My guess was that he didn't want to be there and she had had to persuade him.
The Swedish consul had sent an aide to represent the country and the family of the missing exchange student, Lars Sjowall.
Andrea Vitale arrived last, fifteen minutes late. Probably had trouble finding her way out of Bramblewood, I thought. She planned to go right to work from the meeting and looked pretty in her nurse's uniform, but even pudgier than when we had first met. She was carrying a large platter of oatmeal raisin cookies on a paper doily covered with plastic wrap. Everyone was introduced, and Cassie Randolph poured iced tea.