Spiral, page 6
part #13 of John F Cuddy Series
”Told you I could do it quickly when I had to.”
Turning toward the bathroom again, I realized I couldn’t hear the water anymore. Cassandra Helides’s platinum hair was plastered against her skull, and she wore only a large towel wrap this time, her breasts pushing forward more dramatically through the tucked towel than they had under the robe.
Helides smiled slyly. ”Caught you, didn’t I?”
”Caught me?”
”Licking your chops over my little babies here. Want to see the wonders modem surgery can wreck?”
I guessed she meant ”wreak.”
”You always come on this strong?”
Helides pouted, the lips seeming glossed. ”Strong is what I never was before.”
”Before what?”
”Before marrying Nick.” She stopped and pouted again, putting a bit more into it. ”No, that’s not right. It was after I seduced him but before I married him that I felt it.”
”Felt what?”
Her sly smile again. ”The power.” Helides raked a hand through wet hair. ”I’ve got to dry this, but the portable’s pretty quiet. So, what can I tell you?”
As she rummaged through the unmade bedclothes, I said, ”You’re the one who said I’d want to talk with you.” Helides turned back around, a Star-Wars appliance in her right hand. She clicked something on it, and the thing came to life, even though I didn’t see any cord running to a socket. ”About who killed Very, right?”
”Your husband seems to prefer Veronica.’”
Helides began running the snout of the dryer back and forth across her hair. ”Nick’s ‘preferences’ aren’t exactly uttermost in my mind.”
Another Norm Crosby malaprop, for ”uppermost” this time, but I decided to go with the spirit. ”And why is that?” A theatrical shrug. ”You ever see the TV shows about the old bastards playing softball?”
”I'm sorry?”
”They’re all over the place down here, especially on the Gulf Coast The geezers have leagues, uniforms, and all that other guy stuff.”
”Must have missed the coverage.”
”Yeah, well, let me tell you then. They pull on those cleats and pick up a bat, they think they’re kids again. Or at least young. But you watch them take a swing or try to run the bases, and it’s pathetic, you know?”
”Pathetic.”
”Yeah.” She switched the dryer to her other hand.
That’s kind of my problem, too.”
”Your problem?”
”Nick. When I married him, it was like I got a new daddy, but one with real money who I could sleep with and not have it be some kind of crime.”
Christ. ”You married the Colonel for his money.” Another switch of the dryer. ”Hey, even the sex wasn’t bad at first. Only problem is, when you marry your father, nobody warns you that ten years later you’ll be stuck with your grandfather, you know?”
From what Duy Tranh had given me as chronology, I thought it had to be over twenty years, but I also didn’t want to hear any more on the subject. ”Maybe if you’d tell me what you can about Veronica’s death, I won’t make you late for your date.”
”Oh, I don’t know.” The sly smile. ”That might be kind of fun.”
”What might?”
She clicked off the dryer. ‘You making me late for my date.”
Relendess. ”Veronica’s death?”
Helides tossed the dryer back onto the bedclothes. ”I don’t know anything about it.”
”What?”
She turned and shook her head like a horse does to settle its mane. ‘You deaf? I don’t know a fucking thing about it. I got drunk pretty early that day.”
”Why?”
”Hey, Nick living out another birthday isn’t exactly a reason for me to celebrate, you know?”
I spoke slowly. ”But you told me out in the driveway that I should talk with you.”
”That was just a fucking line, boytoy. When did you fall off the turkey truck?”
”‘Turnip truck,”‘ I said before standing up and walking away.
From by the bed, Cassandra Helides asked, almost meekly, ‘You sure it’s not ‘turkey’?”
* * *
As I closed her door behind me, I registered a flash of movement in my peripheral vision. By the time I turned my head, I had only one frame of a man with shaggy hair in dark clothes disappearing around the corner to the stairway.
”Just a second,” I called out. When I didn’t hear any footfalls on the steps, I went over to them. Empty, and no other sounds I could hear.
At the bottom of the stairway, I got my bearings and walked through the living room toward the corridor leading to the den. From the door, I could see Justo, speaking into a telephone, the Skipper sitting in the same chair again, Duy Tranh standing at his side.
”Lieutenant Cuddy,” said Helides in his garbled voice. There was something in his eyes that told me he wasn’t completely in the present. Then I noticed his hands on the binder of a photo album in his lap.
”Colonel.”
”Come in, please. Duy and I were just looking at some old photos from our time over there.”
I approached them, Helides using the good hand to swing the album toward me on his bent knees.
He said, ”A shot of you and Lieutenant Vega.”
One look, and I remembered. It was during the Tet Offensive, probably somewhere into our twentieth hour on duty that night, some jerk from Stars and Stripes magazine snapping pictures of us coming in off Tu Do Street and appearing impossibly young. I had the blood of a private first class all over me, an MP whose name I never got because most of him had been blown away before I pulled him into relative safety of an alley mouth. Justo was forced to empty his forty-five into two of the ”enemy” rushing us with grenades, neither of the kids more than twelve years old. I could recall seeing the photographer, grinning from ear to ear as he got a shot he was sure would bring him some kind of prize. Or maybe just a ticket home.
If the Skipper hadn’t been there, I would have taken that jerk’s camera strap and—
”Lieutenant,” said Helides, ”I’m the one who’s supposed to be going senile.”
”Sorry, sir.”
A different expression came over the good side of his face, the black, bushy eyebrow arcing in concern. ”Are you all right?”
”Just kind of a flashback.”
The Skipper nodded once, chin almost touching his chest. ”We all have them. One way or another.” Then he straightened in the chair. ”Have you satisfied yourself that the killer had to be someone invited here?”
”Almost.”
”Meaning?”
”I was pretty much convinced until I just saw a man on the second floor that I couldn’t account for.”
Justo hung up the phone and joined us. ”A man?”
”Shaggy hair, dark clothes. He got a look at me, then—”
”David,” said the Skipper. ”My son’s painfully... shy. From his depressive condition.” Helides inclined his head toward Tranh. ”I’ve instructed Duy to have David’s doctor speak with you. Henry Forbes is from an old-line family down here, and he’s a third-generation psychiatrist himself-Once you’ve talked with Henry, you can approach David.’ Approach. ”If that’s what you think best, Colonel ”
”I believe it’s what Henry will. The business with the police investigators threw David into an episode. His behavior with you just now, for example.”
I caught myself stifling a yawn.
”Lieutenant, I must be slipping. We’re not the young soldiers we used to be, eh?” The Skipper looked to Justo. ”If you could take over, I think Lieutenant Cuddy would benefit from a good meal and a soft bed. Duy?”
Tranh moved smoothly to help Helides out of the chair and onto the single brace. Arrhythmic heart or not, a sign of significant strength under the rugby shirt and athletic pants.
The Skipper extended his good hand to me. ”John Cuddy, I’m much in your debt for deciding to help with this tragedy.”
For better or worse, we shook on it.
Justo Vega said, ”I would take you to my house for dinner, because Alicia is anxious to meet you, and our little girls must be seen to be believed.”
We were in his Cadillac coupe, a small Cuban flag standing proudly on the dashboard, its fabric fluttering in the breeze from the air vents. Justo maneuvered us over the quaint little bridge spanning the canal and turned right onto the boulevard Pepe had called ”Las Olas.”
”But you have had a long trip, John, and a longer day, and Miami is at least an hour away during the best of rush hours.”
From the passenger’s seat, I thought about the Skipper’s concern for attracting danger from his case to Justo’s family. All I said, though, was, ”A raincheck, then.”
”Only as to the home-cooking. Tonight we eat out, just the two of us.”
”Alicia won’t mind?”
Justo glanced over at me. ”She was one of my calls from the Skipper’s library.”
”They do seafood well here, but many places in the area can boast of that. And the baby-back ribs are to die for.”
We were in a restaurant called Flanigan’s, on that Andrews Avenue divider road. It had light-wood walls, with fishnet as hangings and small floats hooked into the nets. Photos of what appeared to be an extended family posed with various kinds of saltwater trophies on decks and docks. A blond waitress in a green polo shirt with the restaurants name and a bearded man’s face on the front took our order of a bucket of Killian’s Irish Red and two full racks of ribs, with cole slaw.
Writing on her pad, she said, ”Fries with that?”
There was a touch of Southern accent in her voice, but it was her choice of terms that made me begin to question Justo’s choice of place. ”They worth the cholesterol?”
”This is South Florida, hon’. Cholesterol’s right up there with fruits and grains as one of our major food groups.” But she was smiling wisely as she spoke the words.
”Fries, then. Thanks.”
”You won’t be sorry.”
After she’d walked away, Justo said, ”Cubana.”
I looked in her direction. ”How can you tell?”
”Those in the first generation born here have no Spanish accent, but neither do they develop the full Southern lilt”
I decided to take his word for it, then thought about the little flag on his dashboard. ”Pepe talked with me about conditions on the island. How are things going here in South Florida?”
”For Cuban-Americans, you mean?”
”Yes.”
The shoulders rose and fell an inch. ”The census bureau says that in fifty years, one quarter of the United States population will be ‘Hispanic,’ but that is mostly because of the high birthrates among Mexican-Americans. Cubanas contribute only about two percent of those babies, so we will always be a small minority within a large minority. However, here in Florida, we prosper. Our own businesses, social circles, even country clubs. One of us was again the mayor of Miami, and he a graduate of the Harvard Law School. Those of my parents’ generation—who gathered up their children and fled to this country when Castro’s Revolution overwhelmed them—the old ones still dream of a Cuba libre, but those our age? We are Cuban-Americans, John, but now more the latter than the former.”
”And the Marielitos?”
A small smile. ”Some of us still think of them that way, but the bad criminals Castro inflicted on President Carter and this area are now mostly dead or in prison forever. And many of the others have become as successful as our generation of immigrants. It seems hard to believe, John, but the Marielitos have now been here nearly as long as my parents had been when the Marielitos arrived.”
Justo was right. It was hard to believe that so much time had passed so quickly.
Our waitress arrived with the pitcher of red ale and poured about ten ounces into each frosted mug.
After she told us the ribs would be out shortly, I lifted my Killian’s. Thinking of our time together in Saigon, I clinked the rim of my mug against Justo’s. ”To absent friends.”
At which point, Nancy’s loss hit me like a ton of bricks.
”And to present ones,” said Justo, I think before he saw my face. ”John, what is the matter?”
I debated inside for what was probably too long.
”John?”
I set down my mug without drinking from it. ”Since Beth died, there’s been only one other woman in my life.”
”The assistant prosecutor you told me about the last time you were in Florida.”
”Yes.”
Justo sipped his ale. ”Troubles?”
”She died, too.”
He froze, the mug only halfway back to the table. ”John, no.
“That plane crash, off San Francisco.”
Justo blinked. ”But the catastrophe was only... ten days ago?”
”More like twelve.”
Finally, he set his mug down, too. ”And yet, my friend, you are here.”
”Because of the Skipper. Mostly, anyway. But partly also for a change of scene, to keep my mind occupied.”
Reaching his right hand across the table, Justo squeezed my forearm. ”Does the Skipper know about your loss?”
I shook my head. ”I haven’t told him, though I’m probably showing it.”
”Only to one such as I, who has seen you recently.”
Get off the subject. ”Justo, a question about the case?”
”Of course.”
”Anybody benefit financially from Veronica Held’s death?”
Justo’s turn to shake his head. ”Not that I can see. Her presence in the band was an advantage to everyone, and any other money flows from the Colonel downward, not from his granddaughter upward.”
”Another question then, about the Helides house.”
”If I can answer it, I will. But remember, I was not there on the day of the party.”
”I meant more about the current conditions.”
Justo darkened a little. ”Go on.”
”Putting aside what we just talked about, I was basically propositioned by the Skipper’s new wife.”
Justo darkened more. ”Not so ‘new,’ John. And not even ‘news,’ in its own right.” He paused. ”Did she invite you for a shower at her tennis apartment?”
”Her tennis...?”
”Apartment. Cassandra—or the Skipper, as a matter of record—owns a condominium at the Tennis Club of Fort Lauderdale.”
”She was wearing tennis clothes when I first saw her.” Justo nodded. ”The woman... propositioned me as well. Some time ago.” A frown. ”Apparently, her shower there is... large enough for two.”
I pictured the ones in the suites I’d seen at the Helides house. ”You have any reason to believe we’re the only ones?”
”That Cassandra has approached?”
”That’s what I mean.”
”No. No, I fear it is endemic with her.”
”Does the Skipper know?”
Justo seemed to weigh something. ”A man reaches a certain age, John, he tends to see only what he wants to see.”
”And hear only what he wants to hear?”
”Do you mean, did I advise him about Cassandra targeting me?”
”Or has anyone else?”
”Not that I know of. The Skipper is a proud man, but perhaps the stroke has caused him to... ignore what even his senses try to tell him.” Justo looked away for a moment. ”Also, his condition is causing him to become nostalgic.”
”The album from our service days?”
”An example, but such began even before Veronica was killed. In early January, Colonel F. J. Kelly died. Do you remember him?”
”The Special Forces commander in Vietnam?”
”Exactly so. When the Skipper read Colonel Kelly’s obituary, he called me.”
”Why?”
”To talk with someone about all the soldiers in his generation dying.”
”Wasn’t Kelly older than the Skipper, though?”
”By seven or eight years. But they knew each other, and his passing hit hard.” Justo smiled sadly. ”So, it may be the Skipper is concerned about more things than his wife’s time at an athletic club.”
I thought about the roster of party guests. ”That tennis pro at the birthday party?”
”Cornel Radescu.”
”Do you think he’s been one of Cassandra’s targets, too?”
”I cannot say, but I believe she is at the club every day for several hours. You will want to see Mr. Radescu, I assume.”
”Yes, but I’ll need a car first.”
”Of course. We will rent you one at the hotel.”
”Fine.”
The waitress brought our ribs, not leaving the table until I tried one of the fries and pronounced her advice sound.
When we were alone again, Justo attacked his rack with a knife and fork. ”It is as I remembered. At the slightest touch, the meat falls off the bone.”
When he finished chewing his first mouthful, I said, ”Would you have some time tomorrow to introduce me around?”
”Introduce you...?”
”To the investigating officers on the case.”
A nod. ”After breakfast, Pepe or I will drive you to the Fort Lauderdale station.” Justo Vega paused before resuming his meal, the darkening coming back over his features. ”I can tell you now, though. You will not mistake its Homicide Unit for the Welcome Wagon.”
FIVE
I was kneeling in the bow of a black inflatable boat, the kind commandoes use, at least in the movies. But the people in it with me were men and women of all ages and dress codes, even some children, which made no sense at all.
And each of them, youngest to oldest, was crying.
