Part 22 (2/2)

Here I was, the perfect target, standing on the balcony overlooking a darkened garden. And I was enjoying the night air, thinking about the lyrics to a syrupy song. What if someone was lurking out there, spying on me, waiting to hurt me? I quickly went inside, double-checked the lock on the gla.s.s door, and closed the drapes.

I debated whether or not to tell Lark and Mom about the late-night call and finally decided against it. The next day was bright and sunny, a typical Florida morning, and the threatening voice on the phone had faded from my thoughts. It could easily have been a prank call.

Couldn't it have? Rafe reminded me, small southern towns had their share of crime and random violence. I tried to push aside the nagging thought that the caller was serious. Drop-dead serious.

But I told myself the best thing to do was to ignore it. Mom had left to go shopping with Lark. It was nearly nine o'clock, and I was standing on the balcony, sipping a cup of bananas Foster-flavored coffee. I was idly looking over at the Seabreeze next door when something caught my eye.

A big ugly Dumpster. It looked like a gunmetal gray monster sitting there.

It was invisible at eye level if you were standing on the ground, s.h.i.+elded by a latticework privacy fence. Had anyone checked the Dumpster for a take-out container? It seemed like a no-brainer, but evidence has gone missing before in criminal cases. Nick told me that only 1 percent of collected evidence is actually used at trial, and things get lost all the time. I wondered how I could ask Rafe whether anyone had checked the Dumpster without sounding like I was telling him how to do his job.

I decided to do his job for him.

I shoved my feet into flip-flops and crossed the backyard into the garden behind the Seabreeze. There's a little place between the hedges that's easy to slip through. I did a quick check of the lawn. No unsightly debris, no signs of a take out dinner. Holding my breath, I lifted the lid on the ugly Dumpster. Empty.

For a moment, I was stymied, and then I saw Francesca, one of the maids, coming toward me, lugging a wastebasket. She gave me a puzzled smile, probably wondering why I was fascinated by the Dumpster. She was in her mid-thirties, attractive and slightly plump, her black-and-white uniform stretched tightly over her hips.

”Senora,” she said, lifting the lid and skillfully tossing a bag inside.

”Francesca, right? I live next door.” I flashed my most rea.s.suring smile and pointed to my condo.

”Que?”

”Me llamo Maggie,” I said, using up my limited knowledge of Spanish.

”Oh, Maggie, si,” she said politely. She nodded and headed back to the Seabreeze, but I blocked her way.

”I'm trying to get some information on Sanjay.”

”Sanjay?”

”Guru Sanjay Gingii,” I repeated. ”I need to find out what happened to him. He stayed here at the Seabreeze, and then he died.”

”Died?”

”Died. Dead. Muerto.”

A sudden recognition flickered in her eyes and I realized she knew something about Sanjay. About the room. About that night. Something.

She shook her head. ”No se nada. Nada.” She didn't know anything. Or so she said. I had the feeling her English was much better than she was letting on.

”Maybe you're frightened, Francesca,” I said, leaning close. ”Don't be. I just need to know if anything unusual happened the night Sanjay died.” I had no idea how to translate that, so I just looked at her intently. ”Anything would help, any little bit of information. Even un poco. Un poco de informacion.” I touched my thumb to my index finger to show that even a tiny bit would help.

Francesca looked at me, her dark eyes wide. For a moment, I thought she was going to tell me something, and then she shook her head. ”Por favor, senora.” She angled her body so she could brush by me and return to the Seabreeze. ”No se nada.”

I decided it was time for the direct approach. ”Francesca, Lark needs our help. She's in a lot of trouble with the police.”

”Lark?” Her dark eyes looked troubled.

”You know Lark, my roommate, right? We live right next door.” I pointed again to our condo. ”You've seen Lark many times.”

She nodded her head vigorously. ”Lark, si! Very nice lady. Blond.” She smiled and touched her own dark hair. ”Very simpatica.”

”Yes, that's right; she's very simpatica.” I paused, wondering how much to say. ”Francesca, listen to me carefully. The police think that Lark killed Sanjay.” I let that sink in for a moment before going on. ”We both know that's not possible. Lark is not a killer.” I shook my head from side to side, and Francesca became more animated.

”No!” she said firmly. ”Not possible. Lark is not killer.”

”Right. Lark would never hurt anyone.” I blew out a sigh. ”But we need to find out what really happened that night in Guru Sanjay's room. You could help me. You could ask a few questions, maybe talk to the other maids? Do you understand?”

”Si.” Her voice was somber.

”Maybe they saw something or heard something. You could ask them, right? Could you do that for me?” Francesca nodded, and I grabbed a pen out of my pocket. I scribbled my condo number and my phone number on a napkin that had fluttered out of the Dumpster. ”Por favor.”

”Si. I will help you.” Francesca said softly. She nodded and hurried down the path away from me.

”Maggie?” Rafe's s.e.xy voice raced over the line a few minutes later. I had just fed Pugsley and was finis.h.i.+ng off the rest of the coffee while catching a few minutes of the Today show. ”Just checking in about the phone call.”

”Yes?” My heart was thudding with excitement. I told myself it was due to the case, but the truth is, I always felt a little buzz talking to Rafe.

”We didn't get anything on the call.” A beat. ”But I have some interesting news about the break-in at your apartment. We managed to get a match on a fingerprint one of our techs lifted from the scene.”

”You did? But how is that possible? Whoever attacked me that night was wearing gloves. I'm sure of it.”

”I know, but we got a print off the handrail leading up to the outside door to the building. And it matches a partial we got from the bedroom doork.n.o.b inside your condo. They always slip up somewhere.”

”Clever.” I was impressed. ”I didn't know you dusted there.”

”Our techs are good. Funny how perps can get careless about leaving prints around, especially outside the building,” Rafe said. ”They don't want to wear gloves in public; it would look suspicious. So they wait until they get inside to pull on them on. A big mistake.”

”So this guy wasn't as smart as he thought.”

”Except it wasn't a guy. It was a woman.”

”It was a woman?” My mind was reeling, and I grabbed the TV remote and turned it to mute.

”That's right. And here's some more good news. I was going to get prints from you and your mother and your roommate to rule them out, and then I just took a chance and ran the crime-scene prints through the system. Bingo. There was a match. Her prints are already on file because she took out a license to carry a concealed weapon. So now we can place her at your building, and that's all we need to bring her in for questioning.”

I could hardly process what he was saying. Rafe kept saying her. The person who broke into my apartment and slammed me against the wall was a woman?

”This woman,” I began. ”Is it . . . is it someone I know?”

”You do know her. At least you've met her. The prints belong to Miriam Dobosh.”

”Miriam Dobosh? I can't believe it,” I blurted out. And then I remembered sitting at the Delano with her and noticing those powerful hands resting on the table. She was a strong woman under that frumpy suit. A powerful woman. ”Why would she do it?”

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