Of the twenty tables on the terrace, only three others were occupied. That was about right for August. Tommy and I sipped our drinks and looked over the menu — although we had eaten at Oceana so often recently we practically knew it by heart.
That night we were at Oceana for a different reason than the food and the ambiance, though. Leonardo — my cousin, office manager, and supervisor of my professional, personal, and spiritual life — had asked me to go there. Manny Mendoza, Leonardo’s longtime friend and Oceana’s manager, had some sort of problem that he wanted to discuss with me. Apparently the phone wouldn’t do, and Manny wanted to see me in person. I had no problem complying with Leonardo’s request, since Tommy and I had planned to go out anyway.
Tommy MacDonald was my friend, occasional employer, and sometime lover. He was also the most successful criminal-defense attorney in Miami — no small accomplishment in a city full of people who need legal representation for their criminal matters, and who often have plenty of money to pay for the best. At any given time an inordinate percentage of Miami’s population is being investigated, is under scrutiny by a grand jury, is facing indictment, incarceration, deportation, or is headed straight for the witness protection program. It’s that kind of town.
I had known Tommy for seven years, when he was just a few years out of law school and I was starting as an investigator. He had been pinch-hitting for one of his partners in a personal-injury case, and I was the investigator of record. As soon as I saw him walk into a conference room for a deposition, the run-of-the-mill case turned very interesting — at least as far as I was concerned. Our relationship, both personal and professional, took off quickly. Aside from our personal chemistry, we’ve worked on some of the more interesting criminal cases in the recent history of Dade County.
Physically we’re different as night and day, but we complement each other. Tommy is light-skinned and Irish; I’m Cuban and olive-colored. At six feet, Tommy is a full foot taller than me. He’s thin in contrast to my voluptuousness, and he has light-blue eyes and sandy hair to set off my hazel eyes and waist-length, wavy black hair that I’ve worn in a braid since I was a child. For some inexplicable reason I have freckles on my face, little black dots clustered around my nose and spreading across my cheeks.
Tommy knew about the subtext to our dinner that night. Leonardo hadn’t shared any details with me, so I didn’t have any idea what was about to happen. It wasn’t really possible to blindside Tommy, though; he was as unflappable as a Zen master.
“It’s getting cooler,” Tommy said as he sipped his mojito.
I nodded my assent. At least an oversized blue-canvas umbrella was protecting us from the still-scorching sun. And we had a good view of Ocean Drive. South Beach isn’t the place for anyone with an inferiority complex about their age or physical appearance. Only the most self-assured can handle the sight of so many seminaked perfect bodies without contemplating suicide or self-mutilation. Tonight’s parade included the usual rollerbladers, young men and women, models and wannabe, all dressed in the most minimal of clothing and showing impossibly tanned and taut bodies with body-fat indexes that could be tallied with the fingers of one hand. And there were the designer pets, the exotic dogs and even a couple of birds. South Beach is nothing if not competitive, from the shape of one’s body, to the quality of drugs one consumes, to who can get past the velvet ropes at the VIP section of the trendiest clubs.
Tommy and I were into our second mojito when Manny Mendoza came outside. He was small and wiry, in his late twenties, dressed in black from head to toe. He seemed nervous when he came over and, in a discreet voice, asked if I had time to speak with him.
“Of course,” I said. “Please. Sit with us.”
I introduced Tommy and scooted over my chair so that Manny could sit between us, facing the water.
“Ms. Solano—” Manny began.
“Please, call me Lupe.”
Manny looked around anxiously, making sure no one was close enough to overhear. I wondered what could be so troubling to the manager of one of South Beach’s most successful restaurants. Could it be that supermodels were going to boycott over the fat content of the sushi? Or were the rock stars heading for another place down the road?
Manny lit up a cigarette and tilted his head toward me.
“Young gay men are dying on South Beach,” he said in a dramatic whisper. “It’s like an epidemic.”
Tommy and I looked at each other. Then Tommy voiced what we were both thinking — it was no secret that South Beach was predominantly gay. “AIDS?” he asked.
Manny shook his head slowly. “No, that’s pretty much under control these days. It’s not the death sentence that it used to be. No, I’m talking about GHB.”
GHB. I tried to remember what I knew about that particular drug. I thought it was something like Ecstasy and Special K — which gave users a euphoric high and heightened sexual energy.
“People don’t usually die from taking GHB,” I said.
“That’s right — usually.” Manny took a deep drag on his smoke. “If it’s taken correctly: on its own, and without any alcohol. But something’s happening. This stuff is killing people. I’m almost positive it’s because they’re drinking alcohol with it, but that doesn’t make sense. Everyone on South Beach knows not to combine drinks with GHB.”
“I haven’t heard anything about this,” I said.
“Me either,” Tommy concurred.
“I asked around,” Manny said. “The guys who died were drinking in the clubs. And their deaths seemed like bad GHB reactions. Word gets around, you know.”
“I see.”
“You wouldn’t have read about it in the paper or seen anything on TV,” Manny said. “But we’ve had six deaths over the last two Saturday nights.”
I blinked, and Tommy and I sat in stunned silence. Our food arrived just then, but neither of us started eating.
Manny perked up a little, seeming satisfied that we understood the seriousness of what brought us there. He crushed out his cigarette so hard that I thought he might break the glass ashtray on the table. Then he took out another one and lit up.
“The police are keeping quiet,” Manny said. “It’s really bad for tourism. Labor Day is just a couple of weeks away, and South Beach is booked solid then. Summer’s slow, and businesses here need all the money they can make in the fall. A lot of jobs are on the line, and no one wants to endanger that. Six drug-related deaths in two weekends would be a real party pooper, if you know what I mean.”
Manny looked at me expectantly. He had made his point. If people were scared to come to South Beach, then people like Manny would be out of their high-paying jobs.
“Me and a couple other restaurant managers have put some money aside to hire you,” he explained. “If you’ll take the case.”
Sure, why not? I was a straight Cuban woman from Coral Gables who was supposed to investigate the drug-related deaths of six gay men on South Beach. It made as much sense as anything did.
Two
Thinking about what Manny Mendoza had told me kept me from sleeping much that night. Around dawn I got tired of tossing and turning. I got up, showered and dressed, and put on my usual work outfit of jeans and a T-shirt.
The drive from my family’s home in Cocoplum — an enclave of the tony Coral Gables section of Miami — to my Coconut Grove office took only about fifteen minutes at that early hour. I drove on autopilot and thought about my conversation with Manny. It was going to be hard to investigate the deaths — whether they were accidental or, I had to consider, murders. The authorities were staying silent, so I’d have to be careful to keep a low profile. I hoped that Manny’s obvious fervent trust in me was justified. Leonardo had apparently portrayed me to him as the Cuban Sherlock Holmes, with dashes of Agatha Christie and Hercule Poirot thrown into the mix.