“No, that’s all right,” Stranahan said. “I wouldn’t know where to start. Al, you wouldn’t believe this guy.”
The detective gnawed the tip off a cigar. “He’s got to be the same geek who did Chloe. Thing is, I got witnesses saw them out at the marina having a drink, chatting like the best of friends. How do you figure that?”
“She always had great taste in men.” Stranahan stood up, gingerly testing the strap of his sling.
“Where you going?”
“I’m off to do a B-and-E.”
“Now don’t say shit like that.”
“It’s true, Al.”
“I’m not believing this. Tell me you’re bullshitting, Mick.”
“If it makes you feel better.”
“And call me,” Garcia said in a low voice, “if you turn up something good.”
At half-past three, Mick Stranahan broke into Maggie Gonzalez’s duplex for the second time. The first thing he did was play back the tape on the answering machine. There were messages from numerous relatives, all demanding to know why Maggie had missed her cousin Gloria’s baby shower. The only message that Mick Stranahan found interesting was from the Essex House hotel in downtown New York. A nasal female clerk requested that Miss Gonzalez contact them immediately about a forty-three-dollar dry-cleaning bill, which Maggie had forgotten to pay before checking out. The Essex House clerk had efficiently left the time and date of the phone message: January twenty-eighth at ten o’clock in the morning.
The next thing Mick Stranahan did was to sift through a big stack of Maggie’s mail until he found the most recent Visa card bill, which he opened and studied at her kitchen table. That Maggie was spending somebody else’s money in Manhattan was obvious: She had used her personal credit card only twice. One entry was $35.50 at Ticketron, probably for a Broadway show; the other charge was from a clothing shop for $179.40, more than Maggie was probably carrying in cash at the time. The clothing store was in the Plaza Hotel; the transaction was dated February 1.
Mick Stranahan was getting ready to leave the duplex when Maggie’s telephone rang twice, then clicked over to the machine. He listened as a man came on the line. Stranahan thought he recognized the voice, but he wasn’t certain. He had only spoken with the man once.
The voice on the machine said: “Maggie, it’s me. I tried the Essex but they said you checked out … Look, we’ve really got to talk. In person. Call me at the office right away, collect. Wherever you are, okay? Thanks.”
As the man gave the number, Stranahan copied it in pencil on the Formica counter. After the caller hung up, Stranahan dialed 411 and asked for the listing of the Whispering Palms Spa and Surgery Center in Bal Harbour. A recording gave the main number as 555-7600. The phone number left by Maggie’s male caller was 555-7602.
Rudy Graveline, Stranahan thought, calling on his office line.
The next number Stranahan dialed was 1-212-555-1212. Information for Manhattan. He got the number of the Plaza, dialed the main desk, and asked for Miss Maggie Gonzalez’s room. A woman picked up on the fourth ring.
“Is this Miss Gonzalez?” Stranahan asked, trying to mimic a Brooklyn accent.
“Yes, it is.”
“This is the concierge downstairs.” Like there was an upstairs concierge. “We were just wondering if you had any dry cleaning you needed done this evening.”
“What are you talking about, I’m still waiting for those three dresses I sent out Sunday,” Maggie said, not pleasantly.
“Oh, I’m very sorry,” Mick Stranahan said. “I’ll see to it immediately.”
Then he hung up, grabbed the white pages off the kitchen counter, and looked up the number for Delta Airlines.
16
On his way to Miami International, Mick Stranahan stopped at his brother-in-law’s law office. Kipper Garth was on the speaker phone, piecing out a slip-and-fall to one of the Brickell Avenue buzzards.
Mick Stranahan walked in and said, “The files?”
Kipper Garth motioned to a wine-colored chair and put a finger to his waxy lips. “So, Chuckie,” he said to the speaker phone, “what’re you thinking?”
“Thinking maybe two hundred if we settle,” said the voice on the other end.