“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.”
CHAPTER 3
Catch Me If You Can
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.