T-shirt of the Miami water rat. He had massive biceps on which were tattooed LIVE FREE OR DIE (left) and a marijuana leaf (right). A shark’s tooth on a thong decorated his neck.
“I’ve been expecting you guys,” he said after Paz introduced himself. “When Emmylou didn’t come back with my truck I figured something was up. I called and they told me she was arrested.”
“We’re questioning her. She may have witnessed a crime. So tell me a little about her. A good worker? Reliable?”
“Yeah. She was great. Is great. I mean everybody around here really liked her.”
“She ever mention any Arabs? Guy named Jabir al-Muwalid?”
“Not that I ever heard,” said Wilson. “What kind of crime?”
“Why don’t you let me ask the questions, sir? I’ll be out of your way a lot quicker. How did you come to hire her?”
“A guy we did some work for steered her here when my old girl quit.”
“So you hired her on a boater’s recommendation. A friend of yours?”
“No, just a customer. Dave Packer. She rents a houseboat from him.”
“I know. I met Mr. Packer a while ago. And so…she ran your office? Handled the petty cash. Looks like you got a lot of expensive stuff for sale. She cut your checks too?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Just that it seems an important job to give a stranger on the recommendation of some guy you hardly knew. Did she have references?”
Paz kept up the cop stare, buoyed by the cop instinct that he was in the presence of someone with something to hide, a violation of the criminal code type of something. This was the kind of leverage he did not have on Packer, and he was going to make the most of it. After a little pause, Wilson said, “Look, I’ll level with you. This is the Miami waterfront, huh? People come and go. I mean decent office help’s hard to find, and most people’d rather work in a bank, nice office, air-conditioning, quiet…I mean this place, a crummy little room, fumes from the shop…so I was paying her off the books—cash, no withholding. She wanted it like that anyway.”
“And why was that, do you think?”
“Hey, she was a good worker. And I’m not nosy.”
Paz waited, staring.
The big man shrugged. “It’s the black economy.” A little grin, here. “There’s thousands of people not in the system. They don’t pay taxes. They’re into cash, barter. A lot of them pass through Miami, and a lot of them end up on the water. You gonna turn me in to the feds for this?”
Paz didn’t bother to answer this. With a few more questions he determined that the woman had in fact been sent out after a connecting rod an hour or so before the murder.
Paz thanked Wilson and made to leave.
“What about my truck?” Wilson asked.
“You can pick it up at the police pound. I don’t think we’re going to need it.”
“And my C rod?”
“I believe you ought to think about getting another one of those,” said Paz with a smile, and left.
Paz sat in his car with the engine and the AC running and gave himself over to discontent. If this was a grounder, and the woman had done it in the way the evidence suggested she had, then these interviews should have been simple formalities. But both men were clearly lying. Now his view of the case began to shift; he tried to fight it, but the little nagging details kept adding to the mystery. Why thelies? Why was a cop right there when the victim went out the window? Someone had called the cops to report a disturbance was why, but the only disturbance had been the murder itself. Someone had wanted the police at the scene. And the strangeness of the woman herself…he didn’t really want to think about that. Instead he thought about his need for a new partner, and the face of the policeman from the hotel, Morales, was right there at the surface of his mind. Well, why the hell not?
For a long time after Sophie died Georges de Berville sat disconsolate in the darkened bedroom in the house on Rue d’Orléans in
“I’ve been expecting you guys,” he said after Paz introduced himself. “When Emmylou didn’t come back with my truck I figured something was up. I called and they told me she was arrested.”
“We’re questioning her. She may have witnessed a crime. So tell me a little about her. A good worker? Reliable?”
“Yeah. She was great. Is great. I mean everybody around here really liked her.”
“She ever mention any Arabs? Guy named Jabir al-Muwalid?”
“Not that I ever heard,” said Wilson. “What kind of crime?”
“Why don’t you let me ask the questions, sir? I’ll be out of your way a lot quicker. How did you come to hire her?”
“A guy we did some work for steered her here when my old girl quit.”
“So you hired her on a boater’s recommendation. A friend of yours?”
“No, just a customer. Dave Packer. She rents a houseboat from him.”
“I know. I met Mr. Packer a while ago. And so…she ran your office? Handled the petty cash. Looks like you got a lot of expensive stuff for sale. She cut your checks too?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Just that it seems an important job to give a stranger on the recommendation of some guy you hardly knew. Did she have references?”
Paz kept up the cop stare, buoyed by the cop instinct that he was in the presence of someone with something to hide, a violation of the criminal code type of something. This was the kind of leverage he did not have on Packer, and he was going to make the most of it. After a little pause, Wilson said, “Look, I’ll level with you. This is the Miami waterfront, huh? People come and go. I mean decent office help’s hard to find, and most people’d rather work in a bank, nice office, air-conditioning, quiet…I mean this place, a crummy little room, fumes from the shop…so I was paying her off the books—cash, no withholding. She wanted it like that anyway.”
“And why was that, do you think?”
“Hey, she was a good worker. And I’m not nosy.”
Paz waited, staring.
The big man shrugged. “It’s the black economy.” A little grin, here. “There’s thousands of people not in the system. They don’t pay taxes. They’re into cash, barter. A lot of them pass through Miami, and a lot of them end up on the water. You gonna turn me in to the feds for this?”
Paz didn’t bother to answer this. With a few more questions he determined that the woman had in fact been sent out after a connecting rod an hour or so before the murder.
Paz thanked Wilson and made to leave.
“What about my truck?” Wilson asked.
“You can pick it up at the police pound. I don’t think we’re going to need it.”
“And my C rod?”
“I believe you ought to think about getting another one of those,” said Paz with a smile, and left.
Paz sat in his car with the engine and the AC running and gave himself over to discontent. If this was a grounder, and the woman had done it in the way the evidence suggested she had, then these interviews should have been simple formalities. But both men were clearly lying. Now his view of the case began to shift; he tried to fight it, but the little nagging details kept adding to the mystery. Why thelies? Why was a cop right there when the victim went out the window? Someone had called the cops to report a disturbance was why, but the only disturbance had been the murder itself. Someone had wanted the police at the scene. And the strangeness of the woman herself…he didn’t really want to think about that. Instead he thought about his need for a new partner, and the face of the policeman from the hotel, Morales, was right there at the surface of his mind. Well, why the hell not?
For a long time after Sophie died Georges de Berville sat disconsolate in the darkened bedroom in the house on Rue d’Orléans in
Similar Books
