I did.
I find it as surprising as I do heartening that law enforcement continues to attract top-quality people despite the daily, predictable critical hammering that law-enforcement professionals take from the media, the public and from special-interest groups of all types.
It took me awhile to find the right agency. The two main ones are the Miami-Dade Police Department and the City of Miami Police. The City of Miami Police was handling all matters relating to the disappearance of Mrs. Sally Minster, and the murder of Frank DeAntoni, licensed private investigator, and seventy-six-year-old Jimmy Marinaro, former carpet salesman and current manager of Pink Palms Apartments, Miami Springs.
I groaned inwardly when I heard that.
The dispatcher put me right through to the Homicide Division when I asked. When I told the on-duty detective why I was calling, she said, “Squad C’s handling that one. You need to talk to Detective Fran Podraza. He’s heading the investigation. I’ll give you his cell-phone number.”
Petty bureaucrats devise unnecessary barriers to delay and frustrate outsiders. They prefer inaction because action requires thought. This woman, though, didn’t hesitate to make a subjective decision. I sounded credible. That was enough for her. It suggested to me that the Miami Police was a top-notch organization.
I got a voice mailbox when I dialed Detective Podraza’s number. I left my name, my number, the marina’s number, and added that I was a close friend of the missing woman and had information that might be helpful in the investigation.
Then I began to pace again. I couldn’t sit still; couldn’t seem to concentrate on any single subject for more than a minute or two. I tried to force myself to review what should have been a simple series of connecting data, but my brain continually misfired.
DeAntoni’s voice kept interrupting basic thought patterns, echoing in my skulclass="underline" I’m calling ’cause I need someone I trust. I need a favor.
There was Sally’s voice, too. Telling me why she’d instinctively come to me when she needed help. Being with you, being in this house, it gives me the same feeling Sanibel gives me. I feel safe.
I felt as if I wanted to run around in circles and bang my head against the wall.
Tomlinson was sitting out on the porch. Sat in one of the deck chairs, but with his palms turned upward as if meditating. I grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, went outside and took the chair next to him.
I said, “Do you ever feel like you’re going nuts? Like your head’s going to explode because you just can’t take it anymore?”
My voice seemed to startle him, as if he were in a trance. Then he turned to me with his wise, bloodshot blue eyes, and said, “I passed insane years ago. I’m now on the outer limits of emotional dysfunction. They’ve yet to define whatever it is I have. Simple psychosis would mean I’m on the path to recovery. I sometimes long to hear the voices of animals speaking to me once again.”
I felt like bawling, but Tomlinson got the reaction from me he wanted. I chuckled, feeling the pressure dissipate slightly. “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “I feel utterly helpless.”
He replied, “Have you noticed? In the last year or so, you’ve begun to react to events in an emotional way rather than an analytical way. I know how painful that must be. But I think it’s a good thing for you as a person.”
“Oh yeah? I don’t. I think it’s silly, childish and irrational. What we need to do right now is talk about Sally, not me. And Frank, too.”
In a musing tone, Tomlinson said, “Did you know that the outdoor temperature can be estimated to within a couple of degrees by timing the chirps of a cricket? You count the number of chirps in a fifteen-second period, and add thirty-seven to the total. It doesn’t work in winter. Anytime else, though, the result will be very close to the actual Fahrenheit temperature.”
“If that’s supposed to mean something, you’ve completely lost me.”
“It means you’re right. It’s time to be analytical. Time to start counting the chirps. There has to be some way we can help them now.”
So we drank our beers and discussed it. Tomlinson said perhaps the first thing we should do is contact any family members we could find and offer our assistance.
That made sense.
DeAntoni had told me that he lived alone, not even a cat, but he’d also had an aunt who lived in New Jersey.
I said, “Presumably, she’s already been notified or they wouldn’t have released Frank’s name. When I talk to the detective, I’ll ask for her number. We can call and offer whatever help she needs. A guy like him, he’s got to have a lot of friends. People are going to need to be contacted; a funeral arranged.”
I also knew that Sally had a cousin she was very close to. Belinda Carmel was her maiden name, but she’d married and moved to Big Pine Key.
Tomlinson said, “You find out about the aunt. I’ll go back to the marina and hunt around on the Internet. I should be able to track down the former Belinda Carmel. If someone hasn’t been screwing with my system again.”
At the marina, Mack keeps a little office where the liveaboards can plug in their computers.
I said, “Someone’s been using your iBook?”
“No. I’ve been hacked. Someone got my password. Now I’m getting all this weird right-wing mass e-mail crap. How to build bombs. I’m suddenly on the mailing list of blasting cap manufacturers. Greenpeace and Aryan Nation bullshit.”
A joke, I told him.
He said, “If it is, I don’t find it very funny.”
Detective Fran Podraza called me about an hour later. I was impressed by his professionalism and his attention to detail. After I told him who I was and what I did for a living, he asked for confirmation info-address, Social Security number and mother’s maiden name-before he gave me the phone number for Frank’s New Jersey aunt.
Then he said, “So we’ve got a double homicide and an apparent kidnapping. Right now, we’re working on the premise that it was probably a robbery that went bad. We know that Mr. DeAntoni was a licensed private investigator, contracted by an insurance company. We know that Mr. Marinaro was Mr. DeAntoni’s landlord.”
Which is when he gave me the additional data about Marinaro-a seventy-six-year-old man with no law-enforcement experience.
I felt like throwing the phone across the room.
Podraza continued, “Other than that, we don’t have a lot. So any information you can provide might be helpful.”
I told him everything I knew. Started with how I knew Sally, how I met Frank, about the break-ins she suspected and about Frank calling me on Wednesday, asking for help setting up some kind of trap.
“Why would he call you if he’d only known you for a week?”
“I guess he thought I was the dependable type.”
Podraza said, “Any idea what kind of trap it was he had planned?”
“He talked about doing some kind of long-distance surveillance. But that was if I agreed to help. With a man as old as his landlord, I have no idea how he would have tried to work it. Knowing Frank, though, he wouldn’t have put an older guy in harm’s way. My guess is, Frank would have left Mr. Marinaro in the car while he staked out the house. Maybe inside, maybe outside.”
Podraza told me that made sense, because inside the Lincoln Town Car, on the front seat, they found a. 45 caliber Blackhawk revolver registered in Frank’s name.
“Maybe he left it with Mr. Marinaro so he’d have a little extra protection.”
Podraza had already told me that he was aware that, on three separate occasions, Sally had notified his department that she suspected someone was breaking into her house. He also knew that her dog had drowned in her own pool.
I said, “So why are you working this as a robbery?”
He said, “This early in any investigation, you begin with what is most probable. Statistically, the most likely scenario. Then you begin to eliminate things. I try to work from the general to the specific. We find two bodies in the truck of a car, both men shot a single time behind the right ear, the wallets and watches of both men missing. Someone surprised them. Someone robbed them.