Margin of Error Read online

  Seething, I drove back to the office.

  “How are you, Britt?” Fred Douglas’s searching look made me squirm. Reporters were so much furniture to him. If we disappeared and the cops asked for our descriptions and what we were last seen wearing he would have no clue. What was this? In my dark mood, I was certainly in no condition for close scrutiny. I must look like hell, I thought. That was how I felt. Shoving my hair back off my face, I wished I had used a comb and lipstick before our meeting. Something odd lurked in Fred’s eyes. I vowed payback for Danny Menendez.

  Fred leaned forward and pursed his lips, leather chair creaking. “We’ve been aware, Britt, that it’s been a tough few months for you.”

  His concern made my eyes sting—because I am overtired, I told myself, not suffering from posttraumatic stress. That’s what my friend Lottie Dane calls my “flashbacks, black thoughts, and nightmares.”

  “So I think we’ve come up with something you’ll like.” His eyes crinkled and the corners of his mouth curled up.

  Oh, shit, I thought.

  “I don’t need any—” I began.

  “Hold it.” He raised his hand, eyes expectant. “You’re gonna thank me for this. You’re gonna love it.” He could not keep a smile off his face.

  It is cause for alarm when an editor predicts I will love something.

  “You know they’re filming Margin of Error here.”

  I nodded warily. The first Hollywood epic to shoot on location in South Florida since the hurricane.

  “Starring Lance Westfell.” Fred’s eyes literally twinkled.

  This had to be worse than I suspected. Mind racing, I nodded again.

  “I suppose you’ve heard that he plays a reporter—actually, a government agent undercover as a reporter.”

  Totally in the dark about the script, I nodded anyway, for consistency’s sake.

  “Well, the director, Phillip Hodges, feels that Lance”—I looked properly impressed at his casual use of the star’s first name—“needs to experience what it’s really like for a reporter to cover the cops in Miami.”

  Oh-no, I thought. Oh-no, oh-no, oh-no.

  “And who better”—his hands formed a flourish—“than our own Green Eyeshade Award winner, Britt Montero, to introduce Lance Westfell to her beat and teach him the ropes?”

  My head was swiveling right to left before he finished the sentence.

  “Not a good idea,” I said emphatically.

  Fred’s eyes locked on mine, steel replacing the glitter. “Excellent idea.” His voice rose, becoming authoritarian. “This project is important to the entire community.” On his feet now, he paced the length of his small office. “Do you have any idea how much money Hollywood movie crews spend on location?”

  He did not wait for an answer.

  “This feature will be a shot in the arm to the local economy,” he went on. “More importantly, it’s an opportunity for us to show the rest of the world that Miami is back, that we are no longer a disaster area, that we’ve recovered from the storm.”

  The painfully slow process of rebuilding was far from over. The city still struggled to recover from the hurricane and put life as it once was back together. Like me. We both knew that.

  “Miami needs this shot at becoming the new film capital. We’re even allowing the Margin of Error crew to shoot scenes here in the newsroom. Only between midnight and eight A.M.,” he added hastily, in response to my startled look, “so they don’t interfere with the business of getting out a newspaper.”

  “How nice. We’ll still publish.”

  “Now, Britt.” He tried to sound conciliatory. “Half the people in this town would hock their grandmothers for this assignment, my wife and kids included. It’ll be fun, a change of pace. Make it your top priority. Give him the tour, fill him in. Be nice.”

  “Fred, this makes me really uncomfortable. I’m not the Chamber of Commerce. I don’t have time to babysit some actor, and I won’t turn my beat into a dog and pony show for some pampered Hollywood star,” I said stubbornly.

  “Done deal, Britt.” His words rang with ominous finality. “It’s not baby-sitting; consider it a collaboration. The advance crew and Westfell arrived yesterday. I gave them your number here.

  “This will be fun, making your rounds with a genuine film star instead of the same old cops and robbers. Enjoy!” he boomed as though he’d handed me a bonus.

  “But whatever you do, Britt, “Fred warned, as I stalked out, “don’t let anything happen to the man. For God’s sake, see that he’s not mugged.”

  “I thought this wasn’t baby-sitting.”

  He shrugged and picked up his phone, dismissing me.

  My taste in movies, on the rare occasion that I get to see one in its entirety, tends toward lighthearted comedies, musical romps, and weepy romances, not slow-motion shootouts with flying body parts and exploding scenery. I encounter those on Miami streets every day. Lance Westfell. The only image I could conjure up was the larger-than-life actor striding across the big screen in tight-legged black Western garb, cracking a huge bullwhip. Would he bring it with him on the police beat? There are times I could use a bullwhip, a cattle prod, or, better yet, a hand grenade. I went back to the library and asked Onnie for Lance Westfell’s file.

  “I hear he’s in town,” she chirped. “I’d love to get his autograph for Darryl. He loved the movie where Westfell played a robot from another dimension, saw it four times. That boy walked like a robot for months. You gonna write about Westfell?”

  “Only if he gets arrested. Or murdered.”

  A message from Kendall McDonald was on my desk. I grinned in spite of myself. He missed me. Down off his high horse at last. My heart thudded in anticipation as I called homicide and asked for the lieutenant. Should I accept at once if he asked me to dinner, I wondered, or be cool?

  “Glad you returned my call.”

  Uh-oh. Something wrong here. His tone was businesslike, arm’s length, without personal warmth.

  “I wanted to pass along a few names and numbers, in case you hadn’t made an appointment to see someone yet. I’ve checked them out, their reputations are all good.”

  “You didn’t have to go to all that trouble,” I said, deliberately distant.

  “It’s important,” he said.

  “I’m pretty busy,” I said vaguely.

  “Britt, you need this. You know I understand, firsthand, what happens to people in your situation. They tend to take risks, do things they ordinarily wouldn’t. You can lose touch with your emotions, start feeling numb.”

  “Puh-leeze,” I said flatly. “That’s not me. Why does everybody want to overdramatize this? I’ve got enough on my mind.” I told him about the Westfell assignment.

  “Well,” he said, disappointed, “don’t go Hollywood on us.”

  “You know me. I’m not the type to go gaga over some superficial Hollywood heartthrob.” I should have said that I’ve met plenty of actors, most of them cops.

  I did not bother to write down the numbers he carefully repeated, or thank him.

  Lottie reappeared in the newsroom that afternoon, fresh from covering an erupting volcano in Nicaragua.

  Frizzy red hair long and loose, wearing her cowboy boots, khaki cargo pants, and multi-pocketed vest, she was still high on adrenaline. She is the best news photographer I know. Too energized to light in one place, she circled my desk like a wild bird in a wind draft.

  I studied her more carefully. “Is your hair singed?”

  “Dunno.” She pushed it back absently. “Could be. Another rampage a Mother Nature,” she said in her Texas twang. “You shoulda seen it, Britt. Bigger than the one we covered in ‘ninety-two.” Her eyes narrowed and she dropped her voice. “You look like shit. Trouble sleeping again? Shoulda been with me. Hot lava spewing, ash raining, rocks exploding, thunderclaps from under the ground. You’da been more fun than Janowitz, that’s for sure. That man sure can whine.”
/>
  Her face glowed.

  “It was like being in an earthquake ‘cept it don’t stop; the ground keeps trembling underfoot. Ma Nature on another tear. Flares shooting, molten lava bombs bursting half a mile away. I love it.”

  “Are the natives in a panic?” I asked, glad she was back.

  “Hell, no, they’re throwing tailgate parties to watch. It’s like Fourth of July, ‘cept, a-course, they don’t have Fourth of July down there. They’re all hiring on as guides to the press, and tourists are rolling in by the busload. They got themselves a whole new industry.” She stopped circling and crossed her arms. “What’s with you, Britt? Spit it out.”

  I told her about my special assignment.

  “Westfell! Are you complaining? I’d be happy as a five-year-old on Christmas morning. You are one sick puppy. Hey, I’ll do it, I’ll do it!”

  I shushed her. “Nobody else knows about it yet.” I was not ready for the teasing and smart remarks from the rest of the newsroom.

  “That sexy, hot bod.” Lottie gave a mean little whistle that sounded like steam escaping from between her teeth. “Did you see him bare-ass naked in Dead by Sundown?”

  “No.”

  “Hell, I freeze-framed it on my VCR, shot pictures, and blew ‘em up. Big. Think we kin git him to sign one?” She raised her eyebrows. “With a ree-al personal inscription?”

  I sighed. Maybe Lance Westfell was lazy. Sally Field showed up to research a reporter’s role years ago and accompanied one of the competition out on a story. That star quickly wearied of the mundane life of a reporter and departed in less than an hour, never to be seen again, except on the big screen for $6.50 a pop. I could deal with Lance Westfell for an hour or so…

  That night I found that what I had feared was true. My toenail polish had failed to dry before my hasty departure that morning and was now one with my panty hose.

  The next afternoon, on deadline, I hurriedly scooped up my ringing phone.

  “Lance Westfell here.” The distinctive voice sounded oddly familiar, as though it should be in digital surround sound. “Can I come over to the paper?”

  “Now?” I said, caught by surprise. “I’m sort of busy.”

  “I won’t get in your way, just want to watch.”

  “Okay,” I said, impatient to return to my story.

  “How do I get there?”

  “Where are you?” Christ, I smirked, how will the superhero undercover agent manage to save the world when he can’t even find his way to the newspaper?

  “At the Sheraton.”

  “Drive north, through downtown, then east toward the bay. When you see the water, look up. Fifth floor. Tell security you have an appointment. I’ll be in the newsroom,” I said curtly. “Unless a story breaks and I have to leave before you get here.”

  There was a pause. “Yes, ma’am. Later.” He hung up.

  In a matter of minutes, as my fingers danced across the keyboard, an unnatural silence fell across the newsroom. Gretchen, the assistant city editor from hell, stared from the news desk. A copy boy froze in place. I looked up.

  Lance Westfell stood at my desk.

  “Are you Britt?” He wore blue jeans, a T-shirt, and charisma.

  “Yeah.” I glanced around. “Where’s your entourage?”

  He looked amused. “Don’t have one.” He extended his hand. The grip was warm and firm. He was tall, but not as tall as I expected.

  “Looks like I caught you in the middle of something.” He leaned over to scrutinize my computer screen.

  “Just finishing.” I bashed the SEND button, and the copy vanished into the editing system before he could read the lead. He was the first to break the awkward silence that followed.

  “I get the impression that you’re not exactly star-struck.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said stupidly. “It’s just that I’m very serious about what I do.”

  “Don’t apologize. That’s good. That’s good. So am I.” He nodded, his famous face solemn. His body formed a muscular triangle: broad shoulders, weight lifter’s arms, and a chest like a Clydesdale over lean hips. Probably the result of years of steroids, I thought. The trademark tousled hair was black, curly and slightly unruly.

  To my relief, the phone rang and I snatched it up but all I heard was heavy breathing, either an obscene caller or a gasping asthmatic who had mistaken my number for 911.

  “It’s him, isn’t it? Is he out there?”

  “Yes, Lottie.” Word travels at the speed of light in a newsroom full of snoops and gossips. “Hold on a second.”

  Gloria, the city desk clerk, was waving. Not her too, I thought. Instead of shouting across the room as usual, she minced self-consciously to my terminal. “The police desk is on the other line.” She cut her eyes at Westfell. “A multiple shooting.”

  “Gotta hang up, Lottie. Shooting. See you later.” I punched in Jerry’s extension. He monitors police radios in a small nook off the lobby.

  “At least three down,” he said. “A robbery. Somebody started shooting. I hear Westfell is with you.”

  “Good guys or bad guys hit?”

  “Can’t tell yet. Pretty chaotic. What’s he like?”

  “I’ll let you know.” I grabbed a notebook and looked up at Westfell. “What timing. Let’s go.”

  2

  We burst out the back door to the parking under the building. No steamy wet blanket waited to smother us on this glorious Miami winter day. The humidity had plummeted and the clear air was astir with cool, comfortable breezes. Few surprises left after seven years on the police beat, I thought, but who could have foreseen this? Racing out to a crime scene with one of the nation’s ten top box-office stars. Surreal.

  The matinee idol climbed into the passenger side of my T-Bird. Light on his feet, he moved with the careless confidence of a professional athlete in shape. His presence, or merely his burnished physique, seemed to fill the car. The musky scent must be his shaving lotion, I thought, or was that testosterone? I floored it. We bounced over the speed bump with a tooth-rattling lurch and careened out onto the Boulevard, where I had to immediately slam on the brakes.

  “This is the worst time of day to try to go anywhere in a hurry.” I fretted at the bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic. The star looked thoughtful. The dashboard scanner, locked in on the action, broadcast confusion at the scene, adding to the sense of urgency. I wheeled around a corner to use Second Avenue instead of the congested Boulevard, secretly pleased to see my passenger cling to the door handle, then fasten his seat belt.

  Before he did, he took out a pack of Marlboros.

  “Mind if I smoke?”

  “No, but not in the car,” I said. “No ashtray. It’s full of change for meters and tolls.”

  He put the pack away without protest. He wore a braided leather wristband with a hand-tooled silver clasp. No wristwatch. Time must be no problem when you’re a star, I thought. The world waits for you.

  He caught my sidelong glance. “Nice car.”

  “Not exactly a stretch limo.”

  I didn’t like the tone of my voice. I should be more friendly, I thought. He probably doesn’t like this any more than I do.

  “Bought it after the hurricane,” I offered. “Already had one just like it, but it got totaled. Huge ficus tree flattened it during the storm.” I did not mention the ill-fated T-Bird before it, or the one before that. Just bad luck, but if he knew, he would probably execute an action-hero stunt leap from my moving car and call a cab.

  He looked attentive but said nothing so I babbled compulsively to fill the void. I hate it when I do that.

  “It was at the home of a serial killer. I was trapped there, with him, in the storm.”

  “Happened to me once.” He nodded.

  “What?”

  “Sure, in Island of the Dead. Except it was a typhoon. I had to kill the guy.”

  “Me too,” I murmured. The man was talking about a movie
, for God’s sake. I suppressed a laugh. “This was real life.”

  “I heard. Phil, my director, and I had dinner with your publisher and Fred, your editor?” He shot me a half smile. “Sounds like you could have used a stunt double.”

  They had been discussing me?

  “They come in handy,” he said. “You see it?”

  “What?”

  “Island of the Dead.”

  “Nope, don’t think so.”

  He shrugged. “You’ll have to catch it on late night. Or pick up the video, ‘bout ten years old.”

  How arrogant, I thought, for him to think I’d want to see his old movie, for him to assume a void in my life because I missed one of his early B films.

  The scanner had reported the shooting location as 2734 NW 54th Street.

  “Can you bring up that city directory, the cross-reference from the backseat?”

  He reached over the seat and hefted the big, bulky blue book onto his lap with one hand.

  “Check out Fifty-fourth Street, Northwest,” I said, veering around a slow-moving produce truck, “for the name of the business at that address.”

  He balanced the book on his knees and leafed through the pages.

  I repeated the address. “Look under the street name, then northwest.”

  His large well-manicured index finger roved down one page; then he turned to another. “Damn.”

  “What?” I asked, hopelessly snarled in traffic.

  “This gives the name of the resident at every address and their phone number.”

  “Right,” I said defensively. “A great tool for reporters. Even shows how long at that address. That a problem?”

  His lip curled in that famous billboard poster sneer as he shook his head. All that was missing was the wicked-looking large-caliber automatic weapon cradled lovingly in his movie ads. “The tabloid press and the paparazzi must use these things,” he said bitterly. “I’ve had my moments with them. What about the right to privacy?”

  “There is no privacy once the shooting starts.” I accelerated through an amber light a millisecond before it flashed red, then held my breath as three cars behind me followed.