“Is that true, Detective?” asked Finnegan, gently.
Paz realized it showed in his face. He did think she was a nutcase. But … He felt blood rushing to his cheeks, and considered bringing up the little girl as leverage, but found he could not do it. Barlow said, “You can take her away, Counselor. I guess you know not to go anywhere we can’t find you.”
The lawyer made the obligatory rumblings about false arrest and harassment. As she left, Paz touched her arm.
“What’s a jillado?” he asked.
“Jiladoul,”she corrected. “A sorcerer’s war. Good luck, Detective Paz. Be careful.”
When they had gone, Barlow said, “Well, Jimmy, you got us into it now. You feel like calling the SWATs and getting into a gas mask?”
“I had to say something.”
“A fool’s mouth is his destruction and his lips are the snare of his soul, Proverbs 18:7. You got no evidence at all the man’s spraying drug powders around the city.”
“Okay, great! Why don’t you waltz back in there and give Arnie the Jane version? He can go on national TV with it. Miami police baffled by witch doctor, film at eleven.” He walked away.
Barlow caught up with him and grabbed his shoulder. “Where’re you running off to?”
Paz shrugged him off. “I’m going to pick up Moore.”
“What about them drugs of yours?”
“I’ll hold my breath.”
“This is wrong. We should think this through, calm down a little.”
“I’m calm. I’m not scared, though. That your problem? You really believe this witchcraft crap, don’t you?”
Barlow had the kind of white eyes that get harder than any other kind. “Listen, boy: Captain said take a team, and we’re going to take a team. You want to come along, fine; you don’t want to play that way, I’ll turn around and march into Arnie’s office and get you pulled off this case. I mean it.”
Paz let out a breath and said, “Fine. What do you want me to do?”
They got to the Poinciana Suites a little after seven. It was a four-story, cream-colored stucco building full of small apartments for well-off transients, set back from the street across from Brickell Park. They parked on the street out front, Barlow and Paz in Paz’s car, a big van full of SWAT guys in white plastic suits and gas masks, and a crime-scene-unit van. Barlow told the SWATs to stay put while he and Paz made the arrest. The SWAT commander, Lieutenant Dickson, objected strenuously to this plan; the whole point of his unit was to go in first and overwhelm the suspect. And what about this gas?
“They ain’t no gas, son,” said Barlow. “It’s something else, what our man’s got, and I think we can handle it. Now look here: that’s why they call y’all backup. Back up! We’re going in, me and Jimmy here, and we’re coming out with the guy. You do what you have to do to secure the building, the back exits and such. If we ain’t out in half an hour, you mask up and go in shooting. But it ain’t going to come to that.”
Dickson relented and started to dispose his troops. Paz and Barlow rode the elevator to the top floor in silence. Paz pushed the buzzer at the door of number 303. The door opened. Moore was standing there, dressed in a yellow T-shirt and baggy gray cotton pants, with leather sandals on his feet. They showed him their ID.
“Malcolm DeWitt Moore?” Barlow asked.
“That’s me.” He looked straight at Paz, ignoring Barlow. Paz saw a man of about his own size, with a lighter build and eyes that were hazel rather than brown. Paz said, “We’d like to talk to you.”
Moore backed away from the door. “Sure, come in. I’m in the middle of something. Just let me put it away.”
They followed him into the apartment, which consisted of one large room, furnished in modern light woods and Haitian cotton rugs and upholstery, high-class motel equipage, and a smaller bedroom, which they could see through an open door. Moore went to a desk, bent over it, and wrote something in a notebook. Then he sat down in a straight chair that stood in front of the desk.
He hasn’t said what’s this all about, Officer, thought Paz. Everybody the cops come visiting asks that, but he doesn’t. Moore said, “I just had something in my head I wanted to get down. It’s funny, when you buzzed I was working on a poem about a crime.” He held up the notebook. “Would you like to read it?”
Paz stayed where he was. “Not right now.” Then he saw the bike, just the front wheel and the handlebars, leaning against something in the bedroom. The front wheel had a smear of dirt on it, which Paz was as sure of as he had ever been of anything would match up with the dirt at the side of Teresa Vargas’s house. Moore said, “It’s better if you have the whole context. Basically, it’s a very long poem about the black experience in America. It’s called Captain Dinwiddie. This part comes when the hero has gone back to Africa after being a slave …”
“Mr. Moore …”
“And he finds a sorcerer there who teaches him how to break free of time and space. Anyway, he gets to travel through the decades, observing, you know, the black experience, and this part I was just working on has him watching two kids in New York in the eighties pull off a store robbery and kill a Korean grocer …”
Paz said in a louder voice, “Mr. Moore, your name’s come up in connection with a series of killings of pregnant women. We’d like you to come down to headquarters and see if you can help us out.”
Moore’s smile got broader. There was something wrong with his eyes, Paz thought. A glassiness? No, but something strange. Maybe a drug …
“Fruit and blood in a shower, the grocer dead among the rolling mandarins, I thought that was pretty good. Of course, usually when you think it’s pretty good, you have to cut it out later.” He chuckled. They both stared at him. “You’ve been talking to Jane,” said Moore. “I’m sure she told you an interesting story. She has a vivid imagination. Doesn’t quite get it, though.”
Paz looked at Barlow. This was funny; Barlow usually took the lead, but he hadn’t said a word. “Doesn’t get what, Mr. Moore?”
“What I’m doing. Jane insists on a certain antique Judeo-Christian worldview; I mean, she takes it seriously, if you can believe that, even though it’s demonstrable that it’s a scam, always has been a scam, always will be a scam, although, of course, incredibly useful for keeping all the assholes down in the mud. Whereas, the only reality is the reality of power. The only point of life is to make people do your bidding, so that you get all the good stuff and they get the shit. Wouldn’t you agree, Detective … Paz, is it? Wouldn’t you, I mean speaking as a man who’s had to eat shit every day of his life from people like your redneck pal there?”
Paz slid his eyes over to glance at Barlow. He was standing there like a phone pole. Moore said, “See, you can’t even answer me without checking with whitey. You got the badge, you got the gun, you got your civil service and your affirmative action, and you’re still a nigger in your own head. You fucked white women? Sure you have. Still a nigger in your head. Isn’t that amazing? It always amazed me. And I thought, What could possibly change that?”
“Witchcraft?”
“Not a word I use. A completely different way of seeing the world. As different as science was from religion in the Middle Ages. And it works, my man! It works.”
“You did those murders. You killed a black girl and cut out her baby.”
Moore was still smiling, like they were having an argument in a dorm room. “Hey, equal opportunity. But, really, man, none of that shit matters anymore. I’m telling you, it’s a whole different world.”
“Terrific, you can tell us all about it downtown. Malcolm DeWitt Moore, I’m arresting you for the murders of Deandra Wallace, Teresa Vargas, and Alice Powers and their infant children,” and he rattled off the Miranda warning, while he handcuffed Moore.
“Look, I have no bitch with you or the city of Miami,” Moore said, “but this is something you don’t want to get on the wrong side of. I tell you that as a brother. You’re over your head here.”