LaBrava

Chapter 23

SHE HAD WRITTEN a script once, walked into Harry Cohn's office at Columbia and handed it to him. In a bright red cover. He threw it on the desk, said, "Tell me what it's about in three sentences, and no cheating." She told him: smart, attractive girl is offered anything she wants by rich playboy who's nuts about her, furs, jewels, you name it. Harry Cohn said, "Yeah?" Girl turns him down because getting it that way is unsatisfying, too easy. Harry Cohn said, "She nuts? I never met a fucking broad yet'd turn down anything." Jean said, wait. The girl cons the playboy out of a lot of money and is happy because she did it, she earned it herself. Harry Cohn said, "You mean the broad wins?" She said, "You bet." He told her the idea stunk.

The pay phones, four in a row, were in Plexiglas shells mounted on metal posts. Jean stood by the second phone, waiting, giving it another minute. It was 6:12. Two of the police surveillance cars were across A1A at the Sunoco station; she didn't see the third one, or signs of any local police. Her purse rested on the metal ledge beneath the phone, open toward her. She might as well do it now. Sgt. Torres, his nose practically in her bra, had told her to speak normally, they'd pick up her voice. She straightened, getting ready, and could feel the tape pull against her skin.

Jean said, as though talking to herself, "If he doesn't call, what do I do? This has to be the right place." She waited a few moments, then took the folded sheet of steno paper from her purse.

Ready? With curiosity, then surprise:

"There's something... It looks like... My God, it's a piece of note paper just like the ones... It's sticking out of the phone book." She unfolded the sheet and looked at the note she had dictated to Richard. "It says... 'Go directly to your apartment. Now. Bring the money with you. Now. I am watching you.' "

She looked up, looked around for effect. She could see them, inside the cars at the Sunoco station. They started their engines. She said, "I'll leave the note here."

Victim eager to cooperate. Don't think. Play the part.

Seventeen minutes later, in the guest parking area of Jean Shaw's condominium on Ocean Drive, Boca Raton:

Torres sat in the communications surveillance car, a black Mercedes sedan that had once transported heroin, and watched Jean Shaw walk into the building, her upper body slightly twisted, using both hands to hold the trash bag bouncing against her leg.

Her voice said, "I don't see anyone." The sound thin, coming from a tunnel or from across the ocean. "Isn't someone supposed to be here?... I'm going to pick up my mail."

He had told her police would be in the building, never more than a few seconds away from her. The FBI's West Palm resident agent and people from the Palm Beach County Sheriff's. The West Palm R.A. would be up on her floor.

"I'm entering the elevator now."

Nearly thirty seconds passed.

"I'm at my apartment... I think there's someone... I heard the fire exit close, at the end of the hall. If it isn't one of ours you'd better get up here."

He liked her voice. No strain. Being transmitted from beneath those softly scented breasts. The tape had stuck to his fingers and he'd had a time trying to act natural, putting the body pack on her. She had a mole beneath her left breast, about an inch down.

Her voice said, "I'm in my apartment. Should I wait for a call? I don't see a note anywhere."

Torres picked up his Walkie and said to the West Palm R.A., a guy named Jim McCormick he had met for the first time at the Sunoco station, "Jim, she's in there. The door should be open. See how she's doing."

Almost a minute passed. Her voice said, "Do you think he'll call?" Torres could hear sounds, another voice. A couple of minutes passed.

The West Palm R.A.'s voice came on the Walkie. "Sergeant, we got another note. It was in with the mail."

Torres, feeling a degree of relief, said, "Then it's your case, man."

The West Palm R.A. said, "It wasn't mailed, it was stuck in the box, hand delivered."

Torres said, "Oh."

The West Palm R.A. said, "This guy thinks he's a joker. Now we go back. Ms. Shaw is to proceed to Fort Lauderdale, take I-95 to Sunrise. Proceed east to Northeast Twenty-fourth and turn right past Burdine's in the Galleria Mall. Turn left on Ninth Street and proceed to the end. You got it?"

"It's not clear," Torres said.

"Then write it down," the West Palm R.A. said.

"I did write it down. What else does it say?"

" 'I am watching you.' "

She liked the idea of leading a procession of law-enforcement officers--city, county, federal, losing some, picking up others as she left Palm Beach County and entered Broward--and not a soul through miles of freeway traffic knew it... all these people poking along, heading for their little stucco ranch homes and an evening of real-life nothing. She liked the idea of reaching Sunrise with the sun poetically down, to drive east toward a darkening sky, still in traffic, taking her time, wanting the light down fairly low for the last act.

She wasn't sure, at first, if she liked having the West Palm FBI guy along. Then decided she liked it, because he added a little class without being much more than an observer. She liked him for the same reason she liked Torres--good casting, big-city cop type with ethnic color--and liked having Joe LaBrava involved. Though she was just as glad he wasn't in the procession, noticing every detail; he could be scary. She liked them because working with professionals brought out the best in you; you could count on them for cues, sometimes inspiration. Whereas amateurs could ruin your concentration and timing, make you look awkward. She guessed she liked Joe LaBrava for a lot of reasons. He was imaginative. He acted without acting. Played a street character with marvelous restraint, a natural innocence. He was agreeable, understanding, sensitive. He liked Maurice a lot, a big plus. Seemed to have an open mind. A fairly keen one. He certainly had a sense of the dramatic; look at his pictures. Finally, and it could be worth putting at the top of the list, he was a fan.

True fans understood and were willing to make excuses. If they had to. Joe was a fan for the right reason, he recognized her as an actress.

But, my God, he didn't miss a thing. Had even identified and photographed Richard's little helper--whom she was about to meet for the first time and had better get mentally prepared. She hoped he would have something heavy enough to break the glass. She hoped he would be reasonably calm but quick and, please, wouldn't have a gun.

The shopping center was coming up on the right. She had to assume there would be Lauderdale or Broward Sheriff's cops around somewhere. There was Burdine's, the name against the rising wall of the store. Just beyond were Neiman-Marcus and Saks. She approached the light at Northwest Twenty-fourth.

The instructions were intentionally vague from here, Twenty-fourth to Ninth Street to the end, because she wasn't going that far.

She would turn right onto Twenty-fourth, follow the street-level underpass to the rear of the mall and be out of sight of the surveillance cars for about fifteen seconds. No more than that.

The light was green. She turned, passed beneath the drive-through to Ninth and turned left. She was now approaching the only weak sequence in the script. Later, she would have to explain in detail why she suddenly left Ninth and turned into the parking structure instead of proceeding to the end of the street, according to instructions.

For the time being, she said to the mike beneath her breast, "There's someone waving!" Got some urgency in her tone, then doubt, fear, saying, "Is he one of ours?" and let it go at that.

They heard it in the Mercedes approaching Twenty-fourth. Torres said, "Go--" and the detective driving mashed the accelerator, then had to brake hard to make the turn. "Where are you?" Torres said, as they came out of the underpass and did not see the Eldorado. "Say something." But there would be nothing for the next minute or so, until they heard the sound of breaking glass.

Cundo Rey watched the Cadillac come out of the underpass, dull white car way down there. Yes, the same one, the windows fixed now. He turned and moved down the nearly empty aisle to the ramp, where cars turned off at this level, and stood against the column with a brick in his left hand, a red brick with some mortar stuck to it. He wore white work gloves, new ones. He could hear the Cadillac, inside now, somewhere below him.

Richard said he didn't need to have a gun, she would be so scared she would let him have the money and not give him any trouble. He had the gun anyway, under his shirt hanging out. He didn't know this woman; what if she had a gun? He knew what he was going to do. Step out, raise his right hand...

Richard said don't say anything because the woman would have a wire on her. Richard, the creature, knew a few things, but not too many.

The car sounded like it was in a hurry, tires squealing in the turns. It reached the third level. Now it was coming, he saw the front end, coming up the ramp. The car got louder. He stepped out, extending his right hand, stopping the car like Superman, the fender coming to touch his hand gently, without a sound. There she was looking at him. He took the brick in his right hand, saw her turn away, bringing up her arm, as he smashed the brick through the passenger-side window, unlocked the door, opened it. Yes, she was a beautiful woman and very calm, her eyes looking at him. Taking the trash bag by the neck he had to say something to her, so he said, "Thank you very much, lady--" and ran for the exit sign above the door to the stairway.

He would go to the ground level and walk behind the stores to come out on Twenty-sixth Avenue where the new Buick Skylark, stolen this afternoon, waited on the street. Nothing to it. He wished he could take off in the Skylark, go to Georgia right now; but he had to go back to Miami Beach to get his car. Sure, he could buy a new one. But he loved that car too much. He felt good in that car. He said, "Yeah? Well, how does it feel to be rich?" He said, "You kidding me?"

She couldn't afford to wait too long--twenty seconds from the time the Exit door closed. She concentrated a moment, worked up a feeling of agitated fear, careful to keep it just short of hysteria, and shouted, "He's got it! He broke the window!" She paused, opened her door and heard tires squealing, more than one car, and pulled the door closed. "Will you please hurry? He's getting away!" Without telling them the direction he'd taken. A lapse she would attribute later to fear, anxiety, so much happening at once--wring hands and look helpless. The black Mercedes was coming off the third level, up the ramp now, followed closely by another car, then another. She could hear sirens outside. Torres was in her rearview mirror, running toward her with a radio in his hand.

She'd push the door open, come out with her big brown eyes glistening, pleading, and maybe even throw herself in his arms.