Margin of Error Read online

  “I was hoping we could talk—”

  “Get out of my house! Who gave you the right to come sneaking in here talking to my children when I’m not home?”

  She flung open the door and gestured for my exit.

  “I didn’t realize that you weren’t here at first.”

  She glowered at Harry, who gazed back adoringly, her little man of the house.

  “I was hoping we could talk.”

  “I have nothing to say, to you or your newspaper. Get out! Before I call the police!”

  “Call them,” I demanded, sick of being shouted at. “I’m sure they would find it very interesting to hear that the children were home alone.”

  She glared venomously.

  “Listen, I thought you might want to talk, to tell your side.”

  “You didn’t ask for my side before you wrote that story! You just printed whatever the police said, all that garbage, the lies they told you, then you put that picture in the newspaper for everybody to see.”

  As mug shots go, it actually wasn’t all that bad. I’ve seen a lot worse.

  “I tried. I left a message with your mother, who wouldn’t talk to me, and it wasn’t possible to reach you at the time; you were in—”

  All the little eyes and ears watching and listening kept me from using the word in front of them.

  “You couldn’t be reached,” I repeated.

  For a moment I thought she would relent. I was wrong. “Get out,” she said, her children gathered protectively around her. “Before we throw you out.”

  What was she going to do, for Pete’s sake, have the little ones bite me on the ankle? Starve me the way she did that baby? I left, but not without a final shot.

  “The children’s father is concerned about them. Why won’t you let him—”

  “Daddy?”

  “Daddy?”

  The word echoed from one little mouth to another. “Daddy?”

  “That son of a bitch! Did he send you?”

  “Why won’t you let him see the children?”

  “Out! Get out!” she screamed, as she sprang forward and swung the door shut, nearly slamming it on me.

  From the other side I heard her turn on Misty. “You were in charge! You are the oldest. You’re responsible! Why did you let him open that door?”

  Most children in tough circumstances act older than their age. I know a little about that myself. I had just made life tougher for one of them, the little surrogate mother trying to hold it all together. I vowed to try to make it up to them somehow.

  As I drove away, I opened the windows and the moon roof, letting the cool night, the stars, and the neon wash over me as I thought of how Lottie yearns to be a mother and how some people who would be great parents never have the chance, while those who should not be allowed near a child are usually the most prolific. The higher power who weaves the fabric of our lives together has a definite mean streak.

  Later I dreamed of dark woods again, about the gun and the blood glistening in the moonlight. But this time the man I killed wore the face of the young security guard. I screamed, or was that his mother? When I awoke I could still smell the gunsmoke, the dream was that real.

  6

  I dozed off after dawn, oversleeping well into the safe light of morning. Luckily, it was my day off. My plan had been to jog the boardwalk at sunrise, to enjoy the weather, the most exhilarating of the year. Instead, I awoke groggy, jogged Bitsy around the block, took a quick shower, and slipped into my good military-style navy blue dress with epaulets and gold buttons. Lance had moved into his leased house and wanted me to see it. He also had more questions about reporting. So we planned to talk, then go to the Margin of Error press conference at eleven. Later, he would be presented with the key to the county during an afternoon commission session at Metro-Dade Center.

  Despite my initial reservations, I actually looked forward to the day. Experiencing, even vicariously, the adulation showered upon him would be a welcome change to my usual reception. Nobody loves a police reporter. I wondered as I showered how Angel Oliver would have reacted the night before had Lance been with me. She certainly wouldn’t have threatened to call the police. Movie stars can be handy tools. Every reporter should have one.

  Breakfast was to be yogurt from my refrigerator, but—too late. What was in the carton had grown a long gray beard. I drank coffee and nibbled a slice of raisin toast instead.

  The security guard at the Star Island entrance dutifully noted my destination and tag number. Obelisk-shaped white deco lamps lined the narrow bridge from the causeway onto the island. Posh home to stars and multimillionaires, the island appeared more lush and more pristine than usual, probably because I was still thinking of the dismal garbage-strewn street where Angel Oliver and her children lived.

  Gloria and Emilio Estefan, Vanilla Ice, and Leona Helmsley are among the rich, famous, and infamous residents of the multimillion dollar walled estates where gated drives are bordered by towering royal palms and luxuriant tropical landscaping. One spoiled German tycoon air-conditioned his open backyard and pool area, to better enjoy it year round. Money is no object on Star Island. Don Johnson intended to build there, at the pinnacle of his Miami Vice fame, but dropped his plans in a fit of pique because the deal was reported in the newspapers. He sued, saying he would be mobbed if fans knew where to find him.

  I cruised down Island Drive and found the house.

  Lance was living large.

  Stately palms lined the winding driveway. Sculpted hedges and fruiting and flowering trees were everywhere. Between them I caught flashes of turquoise bay, the bright blue of a pool, and a shaded tennis court.

  The house was a Mediterranean-style villa with arches, columns, and breezeways. Three shades of brilliant bougainvillea and a fiery Mexican flame vine intertwined incestuously as they spilled over the walls. One of the heavy double front doors stood ajar. I pushed it open and stepped into the dimly lit entry-way.

  “Hello?”

  There was a stir, the rustle of someone moving nearby, more a disturbance in the air than footsteps.

  “Lance?”

  Again, a flurry of energy and a flowery fragrance.

  “Hello, there,” I called.

  A woman appeared from a shadowy passageway.

  “Hi.” I gasped. “You startled me.”

  Her smile was confident, controlled. “You were looking for…?”

  “Mr. Westfell.” She must be his assistant or a public relations person, I thought.

  “I’m Stephanie, Lance’s fiancée.” Her curly lashes dipped shyly at the revelation. Was she blushing? “May I help you?”

  I stared, startled again. “I didn’t know he was engaged. How nice to meet you.”

  The hand she offered was soft, but the grip firm as her intelligent, clear gray eyes locked on mine. In her thirties, pretty, in a wholesome collegiate way: sturdy build, brown hair in a pageboy, pearls, nice manicure with pink polish.

  With the Lexie disaster such recent history, Lance’s engagement surprised me. Something he had neglected to mention. This pleasant woman looked mature, more June Cleaver than supermodel. No one would ever picture this one naked, wild, and crazy in a limo. She would fit right in at the PTA or in a church choir. Good for Lance. Maybe he was growing up.

  “And you are?”

  “Britt, Britt Montero. I’m the police reporter for the Miami News. I’ve been helping him research his role.”

  “Of course.” She cocked her head and smiled. “He’s spoken about you. You’ve been such a help. We’re so grateful. He thinks he’s got it down pat now and asked me to thank you. He won’t be needing any more help.”

  She steered me toward the door.

  “He doesn’t want me to come to the press conference? Or to Metro-Dade Center this afternoon?” What is this? I thought, irritated. I could have used the extra sleep, or jogged the boardwalk, or joined the ten o’clock aerobics clas
s at the Spa.

  “No.” She looked apologetic and a bit embarrassed. “I just got into town,” she whispered confidentially. “You know how it is, we need a little quiet time together. We’ve missed each other so much.”

  “Sure. But he should have called to tell me,” I griped. All dressed up with no place to go. It was my day off and I had driven all the way over here. This would teach me. I knew better than to get involved with these self-centered Hollywood types.

  “I know,” she commiserated, shaking her head. “Men! You know how they can be. Poor Lance is so busy he forgets his manners. Thank you so much for coming.”

  She stepped to an ornate hand-carved mahogany sideboard set with a breakfast buffet of fruit and croissants and picked up a small sharp knife. Slowly she sliced a Key lime, the lady of the house intent on her little wifely duties. Dismissed, I headed for the door.

  Should I go to the press conference anyway? Nah. The beach beckoned; I would take a book and nap in the sun. To hell with Lance.

  I crossed the flower-bordered brick driveway and climbed into the T-Bird. I had started down the drive when Lance suddenly appeared around the side of the house. I glimpsed him in the rearview mirror but did not stop.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Where ya going?”

  Sends his lady friend out to blow me off, then has the chutzpah to wave. I floored it. The car lurched forward and I caught a flash of movement out the corner of my eye. Lance was sprinting across the lawn, to cut me off at the gate. Instinctively I stopped accelerating, but didn’t hit the brake.

  The man was fast. He beat me there and lunged in front of the car. Would Fred fire me if my bumper broke both of Lance’s legs? I thought of Meredith Page and slammed on the brake.

  The T-Bird stopped just in time. Lance had both hands flat on the hood, out of breath.

  “Britt! Whatcha doing!”

  “What does it look like?” I snapped, rolling down the window as he came alongside. He wore a white cotton crew-neck sweater and linen slacks.

  “Where ya going?” He looked perplexed. “You coming back?”

  “No.” Now I was perplexed. “Your fiancée gave me the message: you’ve got it down pat, and you don’t need any more help.”

  “Fiancée?” He took a step back and stared down at me.

  “Stephanie.”

  “Jesus Christ! No! Where was she?”

  “In the house.” I shrugged. “She answered the door.”

  He pointed a finger directly at me. “You! Stay right there. Niko!” He was still bellowing his bodyguard’s name as he ran back to the house and skidded through the front door.

  What the hell was going on here? Grumpy and irritable I turned off the key, got out, and followed him.

  Nearing the front door I heard shouts, Lance and Niko, scuffling, thuds and screams from inside. A lover’s quarrel? The woman had just arrived in town. This did not bode well for their relationship. What was wrong with these Hollywood people?

  In the foyer, I nearly stumbled over a small painting that had been knocked off the wall. A shrill running scream echoed from upstairs. I followed the sounds through an archway into a formal dining room, looked up, and saw Niko and Stephanie struggling on the landing. He was trying to force her down the stairs. Lance was on the phone, agitated and gesturing, at the top. Niko caught Stephanie in a bear hug and swung her around, her feet high off the floor, as she shrieked and struggled. One of her sandals flew off and landed halfway down the flight.

  “Lance! Lance! Don’t let him do this!” she howled. “Please! Don’t! Don’t!”

  I could not stand there and watch them manhandle a woman.

  “Put her down!” I shouted. Starting up the stairs, I snatched up her shoe and considered whacking Niko on the kneecap with it.

  “No! Be careful. Stay back!” Niko warned, his arm out like a traffic cop. “She’s dangerous!”

  Dangerous?

  My eyes darted back to the sideboard. The lime slices were still there, oozing juice. The knife was not.

  “Niko! Be careful! She’s got a knife!”

  He heard me and tore at her skirt pocket. The knife clattered to the floor.

  I saw the glance he and Lance exchanged.

  Sirens were already approaching.

  Two Miami Beach cops burst in the front door, guns drawn.

  “In here!” I said.

  “Is that her?” one yelled.

  They should have been able to figure that out, since Niko had her in a headlock at the moment.

  Who was the villain here? Was this how Lance broke off romances? No wonder his love life was rocky.

  Stephanie was pitiful, clothes and hair disheveled, sobbing hysterically as they handcuffed her. “This isn’t necessary. Officer, you don’t understand!” she wailed. They marched her down the stairs. “We’re going to be married! We love each other. This is just a misunderstanding! Lance!” She arched her neck, looking back over her shoulder at him. “Lance, please don’t let them do this!”

  Eyes cold, arms folded, Lance ignored her tearful pleas.

  She was advised of her rights and locked in a cage car as more cops and Lieutenant Simmons, their supervisor, arrived.

  Lance and Niko both talked at once, about arrests, hospitals, and restraining orders against Stephanie in both LA and New York.

  “Florida has aggressive stalking laws,” the lieutenant told them. “We can get an injunction, a court order, charge her with aggravated stalking, hang a weapons charge on her for the knife, breaking and entering, trespassing—”

  “No, wait, wait.” Lance cut him off. “Just a minute, guys.”

  Niko reeled as though slapped. He knew what was coming.

  “Look,” Lance said. “We don’t need this kind of negative press. We haven’t even started shooting yet. If she’s arrested there’s no way to keep it out of the tabloids.”

  Niko sighed, exasperated.

  Simmons looked dubious. “This … uh … an on-and-off-again relationship?”

  “Hell, no,” Lance said. “Never on. The only relationship we have is in her mind. Her name is Stephanie Carrollton, better known as the fan from hell. Started out innocently, organizing a fan club, then weirded out. She showed up in LA, broke into my house, even stole my Ferrari once and, when the police stopped her, said we were engaged. She landed in a psych ward that time. Her family took her back to Boston, had her in treatment, but then she showed up when I was in New York. Got into my hotel room somehow and tried to commit suicide.”

  Hard to tell if the cops were buying his story 100 percent. I wasn’t sure I was. Stephanie was absolutely convincing. She had fooled me.

  “I was married at the time,” Lance was saying. “We come back to the hotel and find Stephanie unconscious in our bed—wearing Lexie’s nightgown. That was a trip.”

  “Sick chick,” said one of the cops, who turned to gaze out at the squad car. I handed him Stephanie’s shoe.

  “Not bad-looking but sounds like a candidate for the puzzle factory,” said another.

  “She into drugs?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Beats me.” Lance shrugged and ran his hand through his hair. “If she’s not on medication, she should be. I had no idea she was in Miami.”

  “She’s into Lance,” Niko said. “Classic obsessive. She could definitely be dangerous.”

  Lance looked sheepish. “I just don’t like her showing up here, and I hated it in LA when she took off with my car.”

  “It doesn’t take much for somebody like her to switch from suicidal to homicidal,” Niko argued.

  “What do you want us to do?” The lieutenant looked perplexed.

  “I called my lawyer right after I called you,” Lance said. “He’s trying to contact her family, have them get her under control and back into treatment up there.”

  Niko clearly didn’t agree but, resigned, he brought out a Polaroid to photograph her. Copies would be posted at the Star
Island guardhouse and circulated among the local cops and security staff working on the movie.

  The lieutenant said he would try to persuade Stephanie to let them take her to county hospital for a psychiatric evaluation. “But,” he warned, “you understand that without criminal charges it’s strictly voluntary. She can walk any time.”

  “Do what you can,” Lance said. “Let’s just try to keep it low-profile.”

  The lieutenant said he would, then looked at me. “What about her?”

  All heads swiveled in my direction. “No arrest.” I shrugged. “It’s probably not a story.” At least not in a newspaper run by starstruck management. “It would make a helluva gossip column item but chances are Eduardo won’t hear about this, at least he won’t from me.” Why did I feel uncomfortably like a conspirator?

  No time left for a full-blown tour of the house, but Lance quickly pointed out the media/screening room with five overhead television screens, the sunken bar, and the glass walls with a 180-degree view of the city, then he pulled on an off-white sportscoat. We were now running late for the press conference at the InterContinental Hotel.

  I insisted on taking my car, so Lance rode with me. Niko, clearly uneasy about the arrangement, followed in their rented Lincoln Town Car.

  “All right,” I said, as we cruised across the causeway in my T-Bird, “tell me straight now. Be honest, just Lance to Britt. You had a little romance, an affair, with Stephanie, right?”

  “No fucking way. Think I’m crazy?”

  “A one-night stand?”

  “Absolutely not, I swear. Not so much as a wink, a drink, or a cup of coffee. Never said or did a thing to encourage her. Quite the contrary. I’ve had her arrested, committed, and threatened by my lawyers. Remember? I must have mentioned something to you about a scary broad. The mental case? Well, you just met her. And thank you very much. If I hadn’t stopped you, you were outa there. I wouldn’t know why, and who knows how and when I would have met up with her in the house.”

  “Has to be creepy,” I conceded. “But she said you two wanted to be alone.”

  “Britt, don’t you think I would have told you if I was engaged or involved with anybody?” His look was reproachful. “You know me better.”