Fatal February Read online

  FATAL FEBRUARY

  FATAL FEBRUARY

  A Novel

  BARBARA LEVENSON

  Copyright © 2009 by Barbara Levenson

  FIRST EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-933515-52-6

  Published in the United States by Oceanview Publishing,

  Ipswich, Massachusetts

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  To my husband, Bob Levenson,

  without whose love and encouragement,

  this book would not have been written.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The places in this book are real while the stories and characters are fictitious.

  The criminal justice system in Miami-Dade County, Florida, continues to work against almost insurmountable budget and building restraints. I must acknowledge the background material for this book that comes from working with the courageous judges, attorneys, police, and corrections officers who make the system continue to operate.

  I also acknowledge the interesting and diverse people who live and work in the Greater Miami area that has made living here for the past thirty-two years exciting and never boring.

  Thanks to Dr. Pat Gussin for her medical input and for her editing and belief in this book and to everyone at Oceanview Publishing.

  Last, but certainly not least, to Ned, one of a long line of champion German shepherd dogs from our kennel, who is the model for Sam in this book.

  FATAL FEBRUARY

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lillian Yarmouth murdered her husband. She stabbed him with her grandmother’s antique silver letter opener. Right in the heart. At least, that’s what everyone in Miami believed, including the Miami Herald, although they used the term “allegedly” several times.

  She had just come home from the grocery store and the car wash. She was preparing for her son and daughter to return from college for the winter semester break. The kids hated it when she picked them up in her Lexus SUV and it was covered with dust and the leavings of garden plants.

  The Yarmouth’s next door neighbor, Cassie Kahn, was sunning by her pool. She claimed that she saw Lillian drive into her garage around 3 p.m. She noticed this because the car was so shiny. A short time later, she saw a young, blonde woman run down the street screaming. The woman entered a red BMW parked in front of the Hernandez house. Cassie noticed this because she knew the Hernandez’s were in Freeport and she wondered who was at their house.

  The police arrived shortly thereafter. They found the upstairs master suite in disarray. Gary Yarmouth’s dead body was spread across the king-size bed. Blood stains covered the expensive peach silk coverlet.

  The neighbors who had gathered on their front lawns in the toney Coconut Grove neighborhood saw the police lead Lillian away in handcuffs.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Last February I went to the car wash, and ruined my life. It was the same car wash that my new client, Lillian Yarmouth, had gone to, right before she was accused of murdering her husband.

  My name is Mary Magruder Katz. I live in Coral Gables, a suburb of Miami. I’m a lawyer. My main practice is criminal defense, but at the time of Lillian’s arrest, I was practicing in a fancy multipartner firm and dabbling in civil and corporate work when I was forced to do so.

  A trip to the car wash was a regular monthly occurrence. Nothing special. I was on my way home from work. I knew I was overdue to wash my Ford SUV. The dust of winter in Miami clung to her sides and back window. The beauty of the dry season brings hibiscus blooms, golden shower trees, model photo shoots on South Beach, movie star sightings at restaurants, and eternal sunshine. It also brings yellow Sahara dust that blows across the ocean and clings to cars, patio furniture, and windows.

  I should have known Wash ’n’ Shine would be overflowing with dirty cars right before Valentine’s weekend. It’s a big deal in Miami. It coincides with President’s Day weekend, a big tourist time. For the locals, it’s also a time to reap the reward of living in South Florida: perfect weather, fun events, and envy from northern relatives.

  The line snaked and shimmied up to the vacuum hoses. I left the SUV in the hands of an attendant who appeared to be drunk, drugged, or mentally ill, as he mumbled to himself in unintelligible whispers. The crowd around the viewing windows was deep; children quarreling over a spot to watch their car get its bath, parents yelling, and people chattering in English, Spanish, and Spanglish.

  I edged my way to the waiting room to pay for the wash. Just as I put my money down, a tall guy shoved in front of me waving his credit card.

  “Excuse me, sir, I was here first.”

  “Well, I’m in a hurry.” He threw the card at the girl behind the counter.

  “Hi, Mr. Martin. Good to see you,” the girl said

  “Look, sir, I was here first.” I wedged my body closer to the counter, but it was no use. The big guy reached right over my head and grabbed his bill, signed the slip and threw it back over my head to the cashier.

  “Just because you know him, doesn’t mean you can be rude to me, miss. And you, Mr. Martin, is that what she called you? Your lack of courtesy is what gives Miami a bad rap.”

  I paid my bill and walked outside to the waiting area, a large patio with a coffee bar and loud music, basic amenities everywhere in South Florida

  There were dozens of cars in an assembly line of attendants who were drying, polishing, and finishing the “instant” car wash. I found a seat on one of the benches and opened my briefcase. It would be a half hour before I could drive out into the growing traffic on the highway.

  Loud voices intruded. I could hear them over the music. I looked up and saw the big guy. He was waving his arms at one of the men.

  “I said get my car finished now. I’ve told you in English and Spanish. Are you deaf?”

  “No, mister, I heard you, but I gotta do these cars in order or I’ll lose my job,” the attendant said.

  “Maybe I’ll see that you lose your job anyway.”

  The attendant took his load of towels and continued through the line of dripping cars.

  Ha, I thought, so you found someone you couldn’t bully. Good.

  I looked up from my work when I heard the loudspeaker calling out finished cars.

  “White Corvette, your car is ready. Red Ford Explorer, your car is ready.”

  Only twenty minutes had passed. I was lucky.

  I got in my car, readjusted the mirrors, and began to pull slowly out of the drive. I was waiting to enter the traffic flow, when I felt a terrible jolt. My head snapped back. I heard a crunch of metal. Behind me was the white Corvette. Its front was now accordion pleated. I jumped from my car. The driver of the Corvette was getting out. I hurried to look at my car. The back bumper had a small dent and a scratch. Thank God I had opted for an SUV. When I looked up, I was looking into the face of the same Mr. Martin.

  “You again,” I screamed. “What were you thinking? On your cell phone, I suppose. You’re not only rude, you’re a self-centered jerk.”

  “I’m sorry. Look, your car is hardly damaged. Mine is the one that’s a mess. I really am sorry.” He pulled a stack of bills from his pocket. “Here’s five hundred bucks. That should more than
cover that little dent. My insurance’ll pay for my car, so let’s just forget this whole thing.”

  “Oh, no. Who do you think you are? I’m a lawyer, and I know better than to let you walk away from an accident that’s your fault. What if I find I’ve been injured? My head hurts already. I better call the police.”

  “Please, don’t do that. I know I was wrong. It’s just that I’ve got a big business deal that I’ve got to get to. Look, here’s my card. If there are other damages, I’ll pay for them. You can call me.”

  I looked at the card. Carlos Martin, Developer, Commercial and Residential.

  “Yeah, well, half of Miami says they’re in the development business. How do I know that’s even your real name or number? And if you’re going to some big deal, why did you waste time at a car wash?”

  “Because I didn’t want to show up in a muddy car from a construction site, not that it’s any of your business. Here, look, here’s my driver’s license. It shows my name. Wait, did you say you’re a lawyer? Are you busy right now? Do you do real estate closings?”

  “Yes, I’ve done some real estate matters, but actually criminal defense is my specialty.”

  “Even better. Can you come with me to the closing of this deal? Just look over the contract and the closing statement.”

  “What? You were rushing off to close a big deal and you don’t even have an attorney?”

  “Well, I do, but it’s the long weekend, and he left with his girlfriend on his boat. Something about trying to sell it at the boat show in Miami Beach. He asked me to put this off, but I can’t.”

  “Well, where’s your meeting?”

  “It’s in Coral Gables. Not far. Only a few minutes from here.”

  “Nothing in Miami is a few minutes on a Friday afternoon. What about my fee? You haven’t even asked what my fee will be.”

  “Okay, I’ll write you a check right now for a thousand dollars, and you can charge me whatever else you think is fair after the meeting. And one more thing. I’m pretty sure my car won’t run. It’s really smashed. Can you drive me there?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Carlos was in the passenger seat of my Explorer before I knew what was happening. His long frame filled the area, even with the seat pushed back. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was cute, now that he wasn’t having a tantrum. I guessed him to be about my age, mid-thirties.

  He caught my glance and smiled at me. The smile changed his face. It made him look like a cross between Ricky Martin and Rocky Rothstein. Rocky was the quarterback on my high school football team. I always was a fan of muscles and Latin charisma.

  “I don’t even know your name.” He laughed.

  “It’s Mary Katz,” I said. “I can’t take my hands off the wheel to shake hands.”

  “I think we’ve met before. You look familiar, and I think I recognize your name, too.”

  “What a pathetic line. Can’t you come up with something more original?”

  “No, wait. I’m not conning you. I saw your name and picture in the paper. Just the other day, but I don’t remember what it was about.”

  “Well, I was in the Herald the other day. I represent Lillian Yarmouth. There was a bond hearing, and I was able to get her out of jail. She’s on house arrest with an electronic monitor.”

  “She’s the woman who killed her husband? And you got them to release her?” Carlos gave a low whistle of approval or awe. “I’m impressed. And see, I wasn’t giving you a tired old line.”

  “Lillian is innocent until proven guilty,” I said. “Nothing makes me boil more than the public convicting someone after reading a squib in the paper.”

  I began to think about my first meeting with Lillian. My brother called me the day of Gary’s murder. Both of my brothers are also lawyers. Jonathan practices estate planning, and William does corporate and real estate work. My parents can’t understand why I think their work is boring.

  Jonathan was the lawyer Gary Yarmouth hired to do his will. He was the only lawyer Lillian remembered. When her family called Jonathan, he called me.

  “I suppose you heard the TV report about Gary Yarmouth’s murder,” Jonathan said.

  “No, I didn’t hear it, but our mother did. She already called to warn me about the dangers of working in Coconut Grove.”

  “Look, Mary, the cops have arrested his wife, Lillian. She’s at the Women’s Detention Center. Their daughter called me. I’ve been their estate lawyer. I explained this wasn’t my field, but I’d see if you could go to the jail and see her. I guess she’s very frightened.”

  “You would be too, if you’d ever seen the Women’s Annex. That’s what they call it. A better name would be the women’s hellhole. I’ll get over there this evening during visitor hours, and thanks for the referral.”

  Not too many neighborhoods scare me, but the Women’s Annex is at the top of the list for fright night. It’s in a high-crime area, a high-drug area, a high-robbery area. There are always characters hanging around the front of the building. Besides those desperate for a drug fix, there are the spouses and boyfriends of the inmates. They are there to intimidate the family visitors in order to keep the women in line and in fear of them. Many of the women are there because of crimes committed by their boyfriends that they’ve been pulled into.

  I drove into the heavily guarded parking lot at 7 p.m. The guard rolled back the gate in the seven-foot chain-link fence, and, after examining my bar card and picture ID, pointed to a parking place. Before I could park, I heard the heavy gate close behind me. I guessed even the guards were afraid.

  The entryway contained a heavy glass window with a microphone for communication and a slot to deposit my ID. No one was at the window, so I pounded loudly and waited. A woman of indeterminable age finally appeared. “Hold your water,” she rasped. Even through the heavy glass, I could smell the stale cigarette smoke.

  I passed my ID in and filled out the paper she passed back: name, bar number, office address, and the name of inmate, Lillian Yarmouth.

  The woman took the paper and chuckled. “We took bets about how long it’d be before she had a high-priced lawyer in here. No public defender for the princess. I think I won the pool. I said it’d only be hours.”

  She motioned me to the door and pushed the buzzer. I entered and moved to the common room. There were a dozen women seated on couches watching TV. They all turned to stare at me. I smiled and moved toward one of the attorney-client booths surrounding the area. The loudspeaker called “Fourth floor, D wing, bring Lillian Yarmouth down, attorney visit.”

  Several of the women laughed and whispered. They were an odd collection. Some appeared to be no more than teenagers. Others looked old and tired. Some spoke Spanish and stayed in their own tight circle.

  After a fifteen-minute wait, a pale woman of about fifty came out of the elevator, accompanied by a porky looking woman officer. I was sure this was Lillian. She had well cut golden brown hair, the kind of color that can only be achieved by frequent visits to a good salon. She was wearing the prescribed orange smock, but she still had a look of elegance.

  “Lillian?” I asked. I’m Mary Katz, Jonathan’s sister. He asked me to come and see you. I’m an attorney, too. I specialize in criminal matters. Would you like to talk with me?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, with a sigh of what sounded like relief. “Can you get me out of here?”

  “Hey, watch it!” Carlos’s voice pulled me back to the present. “You’re about to pass right by the building, and you came pretty close to sideswiping that truck.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve criticizing my driving,” I said. “I’m not the one that slammed into the back of your car. Remember?”

  We pulled into the garage of one of Coral Gables’ high-rise office towers.

  “Carlos, you better tell me a little about what we’re here for. Do you have the paperwork for the closing?”

  “Yes, I’ve got everything in my briefcase, even the cashier’s check for the full
amount. This is for some land downtown in the Overtown area, several acres. The people who own it got it from the estate of their parents years ago. It has some old rental properties on it.”

  “What’s the closing amount?”

  “Five million. I gave them one million as the down payment.”

  “Six million? For rundown property? What kind of a hot deal is that?”

  “Believe me, I know what I’m doing. I’ve lived in Miami all my life. I don’t need investment advice. I just need to make sure the deal goes through and all the paperwork is in order.”

  We took the elevator up to the offices of Simpson, Carlyle, and Cohen. I was familiar with the firm. They do probate work. I was surprised to see Jim Clark waiting for us in the conference room. We were law school classmates at the University of Miami. His clients were an older man and woman.

  Jim and I hugged and exchanged the “I can’t believe how long it’s beens.” His clients were Lois and Lawrence Feller, a brother and sister who had inherited the property. The Feller name was well known. They were benefactors of the opera and ballet. I recognized them from the society pages of the Herald.

  Carlos pulled out a set of papers and handed them to me. I passed copies of them to Jim. We began to read.

  “These papers are all dated last week,” Jim said.

  “I’m just filling in for Mr. Martin’s regular attorney. Let me have a minute with my client.”

  I leaned over and whispered to Carlos. “What’s the story?”

  “No story. We were supposed to close last week, but it got postponed,” Carlos whispered back.

  “Jim, it seems the first closing was postponed. The papers were prepared for that date. It doesn’t matter. This is a simple transaction. Only two sellers and one buyer. Let’s just get it done now, so we can all enjoy this weekend. If we hurry, the Fellers can get this check over to their bank before they close at six.”