Act of Betrayal by Edna Buchanan Read Free Book Online Page A

clean my boat. I call it the Sex Sea.” She laughed, an earthy, show-biz sort of eruption. “Once I was sunbathing by the pool. He opened the gate, was afraid to look, so shy, blushing.” She laughed again.
    Juan Carlos Reyes was not as effusive. “Have they found who killed Alex Aguirre?”
    â€œNo,” I said, “this is something else.”
    â€œSo, Ms. Montero, I am sure you are aware that I am not on such excellent terms with The Miami News. Have you been instructed to call me every time you write a story?”
    â€œNot at all. I’m just a reporter, on the police beat, calling about the disappearance of Charles Randolph.”
    â€œWho?”
    I reminded him. “Oh, that one. I was not aware the young man is still missing. I remember speaking to the father some time ago.”
    â€œWhat was your impression of the boy? Do you have a theory?”
    â€œMs. Montero, forgive me. As you must know, my interests are international, and I am deeply involved with many matters of importance. I confess I have not given this matter a thought in three or four years.”
    â€œHe’s been missing for two. Two and a half to be exact.”
    â€œYou see,” he said abruptly, “my contact with the young man was limited. My houseman hired the boy as an employee to perform odd jobs on the Libertad. If the young man appeared at my door at this moment, I would not have the slightest hint who he was. I will instruct Wilfredo to call you if he recalls anything of importance.”
    The brush-off was polite but obvious, and I still had no quote worth using.
    â€œAny message for the parents?”
    â€œWhy would I…” he began. “Ah.” He sighed knowingly. “A sound bite for your story.”
    â€œThat’s TV,” I said, smiling. “I need a quote.”
    He paused for a moment. “I know what it is like to lose all that is dear to you. I lost my country. We can only hope that one day the boy returns, safe and sound, and that Cuba is soon free.”
    â€œHow’s that?” he asked.
    I could have lived without Cuba as a metaphor, but it was usable. Though half Cuban myself, it exasperates me when Cuban-Americans relate everything to Castro.
    I worked late on the story, dubbed it “one of Miami’s most baffling missing persons cases,” and used Soams’s “pouff” quote. Gretchen had gone home, which was my good fortune. Bobby Tubbs was in the slot and needed a strip story for the local page, either mine or Ryan Battle’s report on the county’s classroom shortage. I wasn’t ashamed to lobby for the spot.
    â€œYou’re sure they won’t find this kid before morning?” Tubbs asked anxiously.
    â€œI promise,” I said, crossing my fingers. Stranger things have happened. I definitely wanted Charles Randolph found, but not until my story landed on lawns in the morning. If he chose tonight to turn up and made the paper look foolish, it would be impossible to sell the next missing persons story to the city desk. “It’ll be a great follow on Monday if we get some leads,” I urged.
    He bought it. Primo space, the Sunday paper, widest circulation of the week, when readers relax over coffee and their newspaper.
    Home alone on a Saturday night with a frozen pizza, I was content. Lottie was out on the town with the Polish Prince, but I felt no trace of envy. I swept Billy Boots off his furry feet and hugged him, buoyed by anticipation. Miami’s good readers never let me down. Somebody out there had to know something. One solid lead, that’s all I needed. Reporters are often the last hope in a world full of red tape and bureaucracy. That is one of the joys of journalism.
    Humming, I doctored up the pizza with a drizzle of olive oil, a sprinkle of oregano, and fresh mushroom slices, poured a glass of red wine, and drank a solitary toast to young Charles Randolph.
    â€œWherever you are,