Nell sat on a seawall and crossed her legs. She wore blue slacks and a modest red blouse, not too vivid. Biting her lip, she stared out at the soapy froth of the surf, visible even on a moonless midnight.
The loyal Shriners shifted uncomfortably, conscious of her grief. For the sake of distraction Burt said, “Mr. Keyes, what’d you say you do for a living?”
Keyes didn’t want to tell them. He knew exactly what would happen if he did: he’d have a missing-persons case he really didn’t want.
“I work for some lawyers in town,” he said ambiguously.
“Research?” Nell asked.
“Sort of.”
“Do you know many people? Important people, I mean. Policemen, judges, people like that?”
Here we go, Keyes thought. “A few,” he said. “Not many. I’m probably not the most popular person in Dade County.”
But that didn’t stop her.
“How much do you charge the lawyers?” Nell asked in a businesslike tone.
“It depends. Two-fifty, three hundred a day. Same as most private investigators.” No sense ducking it now. If the fee didn’t scare her off, nothing would.
Nell got up from the seawall and daintily brushed off the seat of her pants. Excusing herself, she took the Shriners aside. Keyes watched them huddle in the penumbra of a streetlight: a chubby, pleasant-faced woman who belonged at a church bake sale, and on each side, a tall husky Midwesterner in a purple fez. Nell seemed to do most of the talking.
Keyes ached all over, but his head was the worst. He checked his pants pocket; miraculously, his wallet was still there. Just thinking about the three-mile hike back to the MG exhausted him.
After a few moments Nell approached again. She was holding a folded piece of paper.
“Do you take private cases?”
“Did I mention that my fee doesn’t include expenses?”
Not even a flicker. “Are you available to take a private case?”
“But, Mrs. Bellamy, you just met me—”
“Please, Mr. Keyes. I don’t know a soul down here, but I like you and I think I can trust you. My instincts usually are very sound. Most of all, I need someone with … “
“Balls,” Burt said helpfully.
“You marched into that awful tavern like a trooper,” Nell said. “That’s the kind of fellow we need.”
The decent thing to do was to say no. Keyes couldn’t take this nice woman’s money, feeding her false hope until poor Teddy finally washed up dead on the beach. Could be weeks, depending on the tides and the wind. It would have been thievery, and Keyes couldn’t do it.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help.”
“I know what you’re thinking, but maybe this’ll change your mind.” Nell handed him the folded paper. “Someone left this in my mailbox at the hotel,” she explained, “the morning my husband disappeared.”
“Read it,” said the Shriner named James, breaking his silence.
Keyes moved under the streetlight and unfolded the letter. It had been neatly typed, triple-spaced. Keyes read it twice. He still couldn’t believe what it said:
Dear Mrs. Tourist:
Welcome to the Revolution. Sorry to disturb your vacation, but we’ve had to make an example of your husband. Go back North and tell your friends what a dangerous place is Miami.
El Fuego,
Comandante, Las Noches de Diciembre
Brian Keyes delivered a photocopy of the new El Fuego letter to Homicide the next morning. Afterward he went to the office to feed the tropicals and check his messages. The Shriners had called from the county morgue to report that no one matching Theodore Bellamy’s description had turned up in the night inventory of Dade County corpses. There was another call-me message from Mitch Klein, the public defender. Keyes decided not to phone back until he knew more about the letter.
At noon Keyes returned to police headquarters. “Let’s go eat,” Al Garcia said, taking him by the arm. Garcia didn’t think it was a swell idea to be seen around the office with a private investigator. They rode to lunch in the detective’s unmarked Dodge, WQBA blaring Spanish on the radio. Garcia was nonchalantly dodging deranged motorists on Seventh Street, in the heart of Little Havana, when he stubbed out his cigarette and finally mentioned the letter.