James Hall - Miami Noir

“Howard didn’t kill her son. It was me.”

Charlene and I looked simultaneously at Kathy Zaden.

Her lips barely moved. “He wasn’t driving. I was.”

A horn sounded, and Charlene moved forward. Kathy twisted her tissue into a rope and started tearing pieces off the end of it. “We were having an argument. I wasn’t watching the road, and then I heard this loud... thump . I stopped the car and we got out. Howard was a doctor. I was screaming for him to do something. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. ‘He’s dead. Can’t you see he’s dead?’”

Charlene pulled her eyes off Kathy long enough to give the guard the name of her friend in the condo.

“A truck came along with workers in the back. Howard told them he’d been driving and the man walked right in front of him. I didn’t say anything. I went back to our car and just sat there. I didn’t open my mouth.”

The gate arm rose, and Charlene moved at a slow speed toward the entrance of the Atlantica. She idled in the drive-way

“I had nightmares. I could hear the body hitting the car, then flying up and shattering the windshield, and the blood everywhere. Howard gave me some antidepressants, and I was okay, until Carmen Sánchez showed up.”

A uniformed valet waited under the bright lights of the portico.

Kathy said, “We’re here.”

Charlene pulled to the curb and pressed the trunk release. The valet opened the passenger side door, then hurried to get Kathy’s suitcase. I stood by the car. Charlene took Kathy into the lobby. Through the glass doors I saw them embrace.

When Charlene came back, she got in the passenger side. “You drive. I want a drink. I want a drink bad.”

We went to a quiet Cuban bar on West Flagler where for under $10 you could get a draft beer and a pretty good grouper sandwich. You could also smoke without getting cursed at. We found a booth in the back, and I gave Charlene one of my cigarettes when she held up two fingers.

She was on her third scotch and soda before either of us said anything about Howard Zaden’s murder. I told her I wanted to find Rosario Cardona.

“What for? You need your tarot cards read?”

“No, I’d like to know why she advised Dr. Zaden to let Carmen Sánchez come to his house. The woman was obviously unstable. It was like letting a rabid dog in the house.”

“Rosario Cardona was wrong.”

“Wrong? Oh, come on, Charlene. She’s a fraud. She rents out by the hour to read palms at parties. They’re all frauds.”

“No, they aren’t. I’ve had my palm read. She said I’d have a younger lover within the year, and I did.” Charlene set her elbow on the table and dragged in some smoke. She let it out slowly through an O of red lipstick. “You think someone paid her to set Dr. Zaden up? That’s far-fetched.”

“Probably.”

“Let’s just hope it wasn’t Kathy.”

The Yellow Pages listed two dozen psychics in the Miami area, but only one called Rosario. No address, but the phone number indicated an area about four miles west of Dr. Zaden’s clinic in Coral Gables, convenient enough. The flowery border of the ad encompassed a sketch of a woman’s hand holding a crystal ball and the name Rosario floating above it. Underneath she listed her specialties: Horoscope forecast. Crystal energy. Healing. Specialist in auras. Palm and tarot card readings. Call today for a better tomorrow. Private and confidential. Over 15 yrs. exper. At the bottom, a pair of scissors and dotted lines made a coupon: $25 off first visit.

When I called, I heard wooden flute music, then a female voice telling me, in English then in Spanish, that Rosario regretted not being available, but if I would leave my number...

I requested an appointment as soon as possible, and she called back an hour later and agreed to see me at 10 o’clock the next morning. It would cost me a hundred dollars.

I Xeroxed the page and clipped out the coupon.

Rosario Cardona’s studio was in a tree-lined warehouse district with rows of small shops and tree-shaded parking. I drove past open bays of unpainted wooden furniture, racks of clothing, and bright pottery, the sort of stuff that comes from China or Mexico in containers, to be grabbed by Miami Latinas hunting for a bargain.

She had told me to enter through number 8750-B. I parked and went into La Couture Shoes, specializing in knockoffs of $500 designer names with skinny straps, five-inch heels, and polka-dots, the kind of footwear that requires a professional pedicure. When a saleslady approached, I pointed at the stairs going up the left side of the shop.

Rosario rented the second floor. She didn’t have a sign on the street, so I assumed the landlord didn’t know. The stairs led to a door painted dark green. On the wall somebody had hung a framed print of a naked angel with long blond hair and golden wings, flying through pink clouds with a crystal ball in her hand.

The door opened, revealing a petite, dark-eyed woman in jeans, high-heeled boots, and a silky white shirt. Her hair was in a ponytail, and gold circles hung from her ears. She looked to be about thirty-five, younger than I’d expected. She had all the sexuality of a porcelain doll, but I could see how a man of fifty might keep coming back.

“Ms. Morales?” Bracelets tinkled softly as she took my hand. “Come in.”

My eyes had to adjust to the dim light. The room was about twenty feet square, with a painted concrete floor and area rugs. Candles flickered from wall sconces, shelves, and low tables. A brass chandelier with a dimmer on low hung from the midnight-blue ceiling. Wind chimes turned in front of the air vents, and water splashed in a rock fountain. There were display cases with crystals, oils, candleholders, and packaged sticks of incense; a revolving rack of greeting cards with angels, unicorns, and Native Americans; shelves of CDs and books.

A glance to my left revealed a fringed curtain, behind which the spiritual advising took place. The whole setup reminded me of La Botánica Lukumí, around the corner from my parents’ house, which I swear my grandmother had singlehandedly kept in business.

Rosario Cardona’s eyes rested on mine, unblinking. “You didn’t come for a reading, did you?”

I took a business card out of my shoulder bag. “I’m working for Kathy Zaden. I don’t know if you heard the news yesterday about her husband, Dr. Howard Zaden. He was one of your clients.”

“Yes, I heard about it.” Rosario set my card on the low table that held the fountain. “What a terrible tragedy. I am so sorry for Mrs. Zaden.”

“We’re trying to understand what happened. You knew him. If I could just ask you a few questions—”

“You know, I could have taken another appointment, but I made room for you.” She shook her head when I went for my wallet. “No. You should have told me, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Please take it.” I put five twenties on the table next to my card. “I should have told you.” And if you were for real, I said silently to myself, you’d have known. “Can we sit down?”

She was still giving me a look you couldn’t get through with an ice pick. “I’m sorry. I don’t discuss my clients.”

“Dr. Zaden is dead.”

A couple of seconds ticked by. She said, “Transformed.” Her voice was as soft as the glass wind chimes tinkling overhead. “We use the word ‘dead,’ but the dead are still with us.”

I started over. “His wife blames herself for letting Carmen Sánchez into their house. Carmen Sánchez is the woman—”

“Yes, the story was in the Herald this morning.”

“Kathy just needs to understand what happened. You advised Dr. Zaden to let Carmen Sánchez come pick up a check to settle her claims. Could you tell me why?”