ceramic statue of Santa Barbara in the flower bed, and the customary burglar bars on every window. Stranahan propped open the screen door and knocked three times on the heavy pine frame. He wasnât surprised that no one was home.
To break into Maggie Gonzalezâs apartment, Stranahan used a three-inch stainless-steel lockpick that he had confiscated from the mouth of an infamous condominium burglar named Wet Willie Jeeter. Wet Willie got his nickname because he only worked on rainy days; on sunny days he was a golf caddy at the Doral Country Club. When they went through Wet Willieâs place after the arrest, the cops found seventeen personally autographed photos of Jack Nicklaus, going back to the 1967 Masters. What the cops did not find was any of Wet Willieâs burglar tools, due to the fact that Wet Willie kept them well hidden beneath his tongue.
Stranahan found them when he visited Wet Willie in the Dade County Jail, two weeks before the trial. The purpose of the visit was to make Wet Willie realize the wisdom of pleading guilty and saving the taxpayers the expense of trial. Unspoken was the fact that the State Attorneyâs Office had a miserably weak case and was desperate for a deal. Wet Willie told Stranahan thanks anyway, but heâd just as soon take his chances with a jury. Stranahan said fine and offered Wet Willie a stick of Dentyne, which the burglar popped into his mouth without thinking. The chewing dislodged the steel lockpicks, which immediately stuck fast in the Dentyne; the whole mess eventually lodged itself in Wet Willieâs throat. For a few hectic minutes Stranahan thought he might have to perform an amateur tracheotomy, but miraculously the burglar coughed up the tiny tools and also a complete confession. Stranahan kept one of Wet Willieâs lockpicks as a souvenir.
The lock on Maggieâs door was a breeze.
Stranahan slipped inside and noticed how neat the place looked. Someone, probably a neighbor or a relative, had carefully stacked the unopened mail on a table near the front door. On the kitchen counter was a Princess-model telephone attached to an answering machine. Stranahan pressed the Rewind button, then Play, and listened to Maggieâs voice say: âHi, Iâm not home right now so youâre listening to another one of those dumb answering machines. Please leave a brief message and Iâll get back to you as soon as possible. Bye now!â
Stranahan played the rest of the tape, which was blank. Either Maggie Gonzalez wasnât getting any calls, or someone was taking them for her, or she was phoning in for her own messages with one of those remote pocket beepers. Whatever the circumstances, it was a sign that she probably wasnât all that dead.
Other clues in the apartment pointed to travel. There was no luggage in the closets, no bras or underwear in the bedroom drawers, no makeup on the bathroom sink. The most interesting thing Stranahan found was crumpled in a wastebasket in a corner of the living room: a bank deposit slip for twenty-five hundred dollars, dated the twenty-seventh of December.
Have a nice trip, Stranahan thought.
He let himself out, carefully locking the door behind him. Then he drove three blocks to a pay phone at a 7-Eleven, where he dialed Maggieâs phone number and left a very important message on her machine.
Â
Â
AT the end of the day, Christina Marks dropped her rented Ford Escort with the hotel valet, bought a copy of the New York Times at the shop in the lobby, and took the elevator up to her room. Before she could get the key out of the door, Mick Stranahan opened it from the other side.
âCome on in,â he said.
âNice of you,â Christina said, âconsidering itâs my room.â
Stranahan noticed she had one of those trendy leather briefcase satchels that you wear over your shoulder. A couple of legal pads stuck out the top.
âYouâve been busy.â
âYou