Jorge asked Shorty Spudman, who was five feet two and pockmarked "You hear about that German tourist murdered yesterday?"
"Heard on TV. Them punks doing shit to tourists people, they some real bad dudes."
"So there's talk on the street?"
"Some."
Ainslie picked up the exchange. "You guys can help yourself out if you give us names."
The invitation was clear: Let's make a deal. As Homicide detectives saw it, solving a murder took priority over most everything else. In return for information, lesser crimes would be ignored even an arrest warrant.
But Big Nick insisted, "Ain't knowin' no fuckin' names."
Jorge motioned to the car. "Then we'd all better take a ride to the station." At Police Headquarters, as Nick and Shorty knew, a full-body search would be obligatory, and the arrest warrant could not be overlooked.
"Hold it!" Shorty offered. "Heard a couple whores say last night there was a honky shot an' two dudes took his car."
Jorge: "Did the girls see it happen?"
Shorty shrugged. "Maybe."
"Give with their names."
"Ernestine Smart and one they call Flame."
"Where can we find them?"
"Ernestine's sleepin' at River an' Three. Dunno 'bout Flame."
Jorge said, "You're talking the homeless camp at Third and North River?"
"Yeah."
"If you've given us shit," Jorge told the pair, "we'll come back and find you. If it turns out okay, we owe you."
Jorge and Ainslie returned to their car. Locating one of the prostitutes took another hour.
The Third Street homeless camp was under I-95 and alongside the Miami River. Originally it had been a downtown parking area, and dozens of parking meters, unused, stood incongruously among countless cardboard packing cases and other flimsy shelters assembled from discarded junk the whole crude, filthy mess resembling a hellhole in some fifth-rate country. Amid it all, human beings lived desperate, degraded lives. In and around the encampment, garbage was everywhere. Jorge and Ainslie left their car cautiously, knowing that at any moment they could step in a pile of excrement.
Ernestine Smart and Flame, they learned, jointly occupied a plywood box that, according to stencil marks, once had contained truck tires. It was now located on the river side of the former parking lot. A door had been cut in the box. It was padlocked on the outside.
Jorge and Ainslie moved on. Driving to "whore country" Biscayne Boulevard and Northeast Eighth Street, Biscayne and Eleventh, East Flagler and Third Avenue they questioned a few daytime prostitutes, asking about Ernestine and Flame. Neither had been seen that day, and eventually the detectives returned to the homeless shelters.
This time they found the roughly cut door of Ernestine and Flame's plywood box unlocked and open. Jorge put his head into the dark interior.
"Hey, Ernestine. It's your friendly neighborhood cop. How's tricks?"
A husky voice came back. "If I had more I wouldn't be livin' in this pigpen. You wanna fuck, copper? For you it's bargain day."
"Damn! Just can't take the time; got a murder to solve. Word on the street is you and Flame saw it."
From the interior gloom, Ernestine peered out. Jorge guessed she was about twenty, despite the jaded attitude of a woman twice her age. She was black and once beautiful, but now her face was puffy and etched with lines. Her figure was good, though. A white jumpsuit showed a slim body and firm breasts. Ernestine saw Jorge's eyes and seemed amused.
"We all see things," she told him. "roan' always remember."
"But you'll remember if I help you?"
Ernestine smiled enigmatically. He knew the answer was yes.
That's the way it was with prostitutes, and it was why detectives cultivated them as friends and allies. Prostitutes were full of information and would reveal it if they liked the cop or liked the deal. But they never volunteered anything; you had to ask the right questions.
Jorge began tentatively. "Were you by any chance working Northwest Third and Twelfth Street last night?"
"I dunno. Maybe."
"Well, I was wondering if you saw two jitterbugs jump into a car driven by an older white guy, then shoot him and dump him out of the car."
"No, but I did see a brother an' this cheap-lookin' 'fey chick make some old guy stop his car, then do what you said."
Jorge glanced at Ainslie, who nodded, sensing pay dirt. "Let's get this clear," Jorge said. "It was a black male and a white woman?"
"Yeah." Ernestine eyed him directly. "Before I say any more, you gonna hit my skin, man?''
"If what you tell us isn't bullshit, it'll be worth a hundred."
"That's cool." She looked pleased.
"Do you know the names?"
"The black dude is Kermit the Frog. Looks like a frog; has funny bulgin' eyes. He's a bad one, always pullin' his piece."
"And the woman?"
"Heard her called Maggie, she's always with Kermit. They hang at the diner over on Eighth Street, an' I saw them both get picked up for havin' smack."
"If I brought some photos, would you identify them?"
"Sure, sweetie, anything for you." Reaching out, Ernestine touched Jorge's cheek. "You're kinda cute."
He smiled, then pressed on. "What about Flame? Will she help us, too?"
"You'll have to ask him."
Jorge was startled. "Him?"
"Flame's a he-she," Ernestine said. "Name's Jimmy McRae."
Ainslie groaned audibly. "Not as a witness. No way!"
Jorge nodded. A he-she, a male who wanted to undergo a sex change and meanwhile dressed and lived as a woman, was common in the libidinous underworld. On top of that, it seemed, Flame paraded as a female prostitute. There was no way such a kink could be produced in court; the jury would be turned off, so forget Flame. Ernestine would be a good witness, and they might find others.
Jorge told Ernestine, "If what you've told us checks out, we'll stop by with your money in the next couple of days."
That kind of payoff an informer's fee was available from an expense account to which detectives had access.
At that moment Ainslie's portable police radio announced his unit number, 1910.
He responded, "QSK," meaning "Proceed with transmission."
"Call your lieutenant."
Using the same portable, which doubled as a phone, Ainslie gave Leo Newbold's number.
"We have a break in the Niehaus case," Newbold said. "State Police found the missing car with two suspects. They're being brought here now."
"Don't tell me, sir," Ainslie said, checking notes. "One black guy named Kermit, and a white girl, Maggie?"
"Right on! That's them. How'd you know?"
"Jorge Rodriguez has a witness. A prostitute. Said she'll make an ID."
"Tell Jorge, nice going. Better get over here. Let's wrap this up fast."
The facts slowly emerged. A sharp-eyed Florida state trooper, who had memorized the previous day's Miami Police BOLO, had spotted and stopped the wanted car and arrested its occupants a black male, Kermit Kaprum, age nineteen, and Maggie Thorne, white female, twenty-three. They were carrying .38-caliber revolvers, which were sent for ballistics analysis.
They told uniformed police that an hour or so earlier they had found the car abandoned, with the keys in the ignition, and had taken it for a joyride. It was a patently false story, though not contested by the uniforms, who knew that Homicide detectives would do the important questioning.
When Ainslie and Jorge reached Homicide, Kaprum and Thorne had already arrived and were being detained in separate interview rooms. A computer check revealed that both had criminal records, beginning at age eighteen. The young woman, Thorne, had served prison time for thefts and had misdemeanor convictions for prostitution. Kaprum had two convictions, for larceny and disorderly conduct. It was likely that both had records also as juvenile offenders.