by Jack Hardin
A side door led to an outside playground. Sunlight temporarily flooded inside as it opened and Alex Serrano stepped through. Before he could notice the silver-haired man standing amongst a sea of olive-skinned children, a tiny girl with her dark hair in pigtails ran up to Alex, sobbing loudly. He squatted down and embraced her before pulling her back and looking at her forehead like a concerned parent. He spoke softly to her and wiped her tears away. She nodded, brushed at her face, and returned to a small pile of dolls in the corner of the room. Alex smiled at her, his gaze moving around the room until it landed on Jet. A look of surprise and recognition crossed his face. He stood and approached the older man with his hand outstretched. He didn’t bother to hide the intrigue in his voice.
“Jet, you came to see us.” They shook hands.
“I thought this would be the best place to start. Did you think I wouldn’t come?”
“Of course, I hoped you would. But if I am honest, the previous two investigators we hired never bothered.”
“I’m sure that was frustrating. I wouldn’t have taken the job if I couldn’t give it the proper attention.”
“Well, I thank you very much.” Alex looked around like he was unsure where to start. “I was just about to get some work done in my office. But why don’t I show you around first?”
“Thank you.”
Alex spent the next ten minutes showing him the kitchen, the playground, and the accompanying courtyard. He introduced Jet to several adults who volunteered at Hope House.
“Was anyone here friends with Juanita?” Jet asked.
Alex scanned the room before answering. “No. I wouldn’t say friends. Many of them knew who she was. She was very kind to them.” Alex gestured toward the little girl who had been crying just minutes earlier. “Chantal was Juanita’s shadow whenever Juanita was here. The detective—Wilson, I believe his last name is—spent a couple of days here speaking with the children and interviewing anyone in the neighborhood who might have known her. But he didn’t find anything of substance.”
Jet was already privy to that last bit of information. He had spoken with Timothy Wilson yesterday. The detective had worked the case hard for the first week after Juanita’s disappearance. But after that, a lack of leads and a pile of new cases diverted his attention. The case hadn’t been touched in any substantial way in over five weeks. Mr. Wilson gave him the go-ahead to proceed on the case under the Closure Act.
Jet asked, “Juanita didn’t spend time with anyone her age?”
“No. There aren’t many older teenagers who come here. Those that do are mostly here for the sake of a younger sibling. Juanita mostly kept to herself. Sometimes she would just walk Junior over here and then come back and pick him up. There was one girl a couple of years younger than her, Olivia. But I think she moved out of state a few months before Juanita disappeared.”
“And she never spoke to you about this Jesse guy?”
“No. Not to anyone as far as I know. And she told Junior to stay quiet about it.” Alex’s disposition suddenly lifted. “Did you see the mural as you came in?”
Jet shook his head.
“Then you must have come in from the other end of 36th. Come with me,” he said. “I’ll show you what Juanita left for us.” He led Jet back out the front doors. He swung left at the end of the front walkway, and Jet followed him around to the side of the building. Alex stopped and extended an arm. “This,” he said proudly, “is what she did.”
Jet looked across the expanse of the wall to witness older men playing dominoes and a lady behind them frying plantains in a large pan. Further down, the painting showed men engaged in soccer and a teenage boy connecting his bat to a baseball. The shelter’s name stood tall in the center with the Cuban and American flags flying over it.
“Incredible,” Jet said. “And Juanita did all of this?”
“Every bit of it.”
It wasn’t simply the images themselves but the detail in each face: the way one of the men was studying the checkerboard, the joy in the cook’s face, the intent of the boy’s eye as he made contact with the ball. Juanita had not only detailed the people, she had also captured how they felt as they did it—their humanity. Looking at the mural, studying it, Jet could feel the breadth and heart of a community he could not have related to otherwise. He brought his phone out and took a few pictures.
Across the street, a man who looked to be in his early twenties was sitting on the curb in front of the old church. He was staring intently at Jet. He wore black jeans and an oversized Stray Rats t-shirt, a streetwear brand that was growing in popularity with Miami gangs and troublesome subcultures. Jet ignored him and turned his attention back to Juanita’s artwork. Alex stepped up to the wall and ran his fingers down the mural. “The afternoon she finished this was the last time I saw her.” He sighed and took a step back. “Thank you, Jet, for coming. This situation is so terrible.”
“Certainly,” Jet said, and looked down 37th Street. “I’m going to walk the neighborhood for a bit.”
“Of course,” Alex said. “But please be careful. There are many good people around here but also those who might wonder how much you have in your wallet.”
“I don’t mind standing out. I just want some answers.”
A volunteer appeared from around the corner. The older lady had a pleading look on her face. “Alex, Jose is causing trouble again. I’m sorry, but he won’t listen to me.”
“Go on,” Jet said to Alex. “I’ll call you with any more questions.” The men said goodbye, and Jet took in the mural for a little longer before crossing the street and slowly making his way further into the neighborhood. The man who had been staring at him stood up from his place on the curb and followed Jet from twenty yards behind. Jet’s handgun rested safety in his ankle holster, hidden behind the cuff of his pants leg. At just six-and-a-half inches long and only four inches from the magazine’s floor plate to the top of the rear sight, the Glock 26 was the perfect size for a concealed carry while still providing its owner with the stopping force of a 9mm.
Jet passed an empty lot where an abandoned shopping cart was turned upside down and an old carpet, a couch, and a pile of laundry had been discarded. As he strolled past an elementary school, he shot a quick glance over his shoulder to find that the man was gone. Still, he remained alert, passing up a Dollar General and a small grocery store whose front window was advertising a sale on mangoes and shredded beef. He crossed at the next intersection and turned east, keeping his trajectory set toward the motel where Juanita was last seen by her brother.
An elderly lady was walking ahead of him. A large purse hung from her shoulder, and she moved with slow, arthritic movements toward a fruit stand perched in the center of the sidewalk.
The man who had been following Jet appeared just in front of her, in the entrance to an alley. He eyed the lady as she strolled by him. Her attention was set on the stand before her, and she didn’t seem to notice the man.
Suddenly, he stepped forward and reached a hand out for the purse. He grabbed the strap tightly in his fingers and pulled. The lady cried out as she struggled against him. Her frail frame was no match, and her purse came loose in his hands. He stepped backward and, after a quick glance back at Jet, bolted down the street. Behind him, the lady had an angry fist pumping high in the air as she yelled frantically at him in Spanish.
Jet immediately drew his weapon and took off after him, stepping off into the street to avoid both the lady and the fruit stand. He couldn’t use his gun to get the purse back, but in the event the man was armed, Jet didn’t want to be caught off guard.
The man darted around the next corner, disappearing behind an old stucco building. Jet made the turn and, approaching a wide alley at the back of the building, pulled up and stopped.
The young man was on his knees. He was facing Jet, and his fingers were laced behind his head like he was ready to be arrested. He spoke quickly. “Easy, yo. I just want to talk to you.” The purse had been dropped at th
e front of the alley and lay ten feet away.
Jet was in good shape for his age, but the quick sprint left him a little winded. “Why did you have to steal that lady’s purse if you just wanted to talk with me?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder to check for any sign of the young man’s friends.
“You’re not a cop, right?”
Jet told him he was a private investigator.
“You’re trying to find that girl, right? Juanita?”
“Why? Do you know something?”
“You good if I stand up now?”
Jet nodded. “Stand over there against the wall.” Jet moved further into the alley and swiveled so he could get a better view of the street. He kept his gun trained on the man. “Get to it,” he said. “Quickly.”
“Yeah, so, this girl, Juanita. She was all right, you know? Real nice chica. And I think I might know who took her.”
“You think?”
“I’m not all the way for sure.”
“I’m listening.”
“So this guy, he starts coming around a few months ago and I seen Juanita and her little brother with him a couple times. And I thought he looked like someone I’d seen back in the day. But I couldn’t place it, you know? But a couple weeks ago I was rolling in from my job out in Little River and seen a billboard out by the casino of some chick that made me think of Juanita. It wasn’t her, you know, but it reminded me of her. She had the same hair and those dark eyes. And then,” he snapped his fingers, “I was like, I know where I’ve seen that guy before.”
“Where?” Jet asked.
“I got this cousin up in West Palm Beach, and she got me into this party a couple of years back. A real burumba. And that was where I seen him.”
Jet, a little skeptical, asked, “How do you remember a random guy from a party from two years ago?”
“Because some fool had too much tequila and started feeling up this guy’s girl. So he pulls out a .45 and parks the muzzle in the drunk guy’s mouth.” He shrugged. “You kinda remember stuff like that.”
“And his name is Jesse?”
“I don’t know his name. Might be Jesse. But if I was running a game swiping chicas off the street, I wouldn’t be using my real name. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Jet did know what he was saying. “So where can I find him?”
“I don’t know that neither. But I know who probably does.” He motioned toward the gun. “Yo, can you get that outta my face? I’m tryin’ to help here.”
Jet glanced down the street again and lowered his angle of focus to forty-five degrees so the weapon was now pointing at the man’s feet and not his chest. “Go on,” he said.
“I don’t got his number anymore, but you need to go up to Papi’s La Cubana. It’s a restaurant in Little Havana and ask for a guy named Saint.”
“Saint?”
“Yeah. He’s a cook up in there. He was at that party, and he knows everybody on the street. Everybody.”
Jet lowered his weapon to his side. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I just want to help, ese. Like I said, Juanita was all right. Her little brother too. They’ve been through a lot like a bunch of us around here.”
“The police were in the neighborhood asking questions after Juanita didn’t come back. Why didn’t you tell them this?” Jet knew why, but he had to ask.
“It’s like I told you. I just remembered a couple weeks back.” He shook his head. “Besides, I’m not ratting to the la jura. Half of them won’t listen, and the other half are as crooked as my abuelo’s teeth. They’d probably try to pin her being gone on me.”
“What’s your name?”
The young man huffed as though Jet had just made an attempt at humor. “I ain’t giving you that, ese. You know, I might be crazy for talking to you. But I ain’t stupid.”
“Fair enough.”
The man raised his open hands up to his shoulders. “I’m gonna go now. You cool with that?”
Jet stepped to the side. “Go on.”
The man used his chin to indicate toward the purse. “Think you can get that back to the lady? Maybe tell her I’m sorry.”
“Sure,” Jet said.
The man started a quick trot down the sidewalk before pausing long enough to turn around and say, “I hope you find her and the bastardos who took her.” Then he was gone.
Still cautious of his surroundings, Jet kneeled down and returned his Glock to his ankle holster. He stood and walked over to the purse. He picked it up and opened it. Inside was a cell phone in a purple case, a small notebook, an orange prescription bottle, a tube of lipstick, and a pink wallet. He withdrew the wallet and unsnapped it. There were several credit cards, thirty-two dollars in cash, and a driver’s license for a Valeria Sanchez. He shut the wallet and returned it to the purse, impressed that the young man appeared not to have taken anything.
The fruit stand was back down E 87th Street. He would return the purse and complete the route to the abandoned motel.
Then he was off to Little Havana.
Chapter Thirteen
Ellie lowered her boat into the canal and waved hello to a couple on the bridge of a passing catamaran. She idled her Bayliner off the cradle and into the center of the canal, then gave it a few more knots. A couple of minutes later she was in Pine Island Sound, the southern waters of which separated Pine Island from Sanibel, which lay just two miles out. She gave the Norma Jean pier a wide berth and passed up York Island and Havelock Key as she turned north.
A half hour later she rode by six charred and blackened pilings that stood out of the water like ancient sentinels. They were all that remained of Quinton Davis’s burned down fishing shack. She had nearly died in that fire. Had it not been for a stranger that she never did get the chance to thank, she would have. She continued on and soon approached Mondongo Rocks, a series of sand and oyster bars flanked by luscious red mangroves. An old wooden fishing boat was beached on one of Mondongo’s tiny keys. As Ellie’s Bayliner moved past it, she easily recalled last summer when she searched the fishing boat’s broken stern and discovered gas cans filled with fuel. It was the beginning of a months-long investigation that culminated in the takedown of three local drug operations. Now, as she began a new investigation, this time into the death of a friend, she could feel a latent angst begin to rise, the determination to find out what really happened to Nick after all.
She ran her boat into Gasparilla Sound, continuing north until she entered Cape Haze and drew up into Coral Creek where the coastal vegetation grew closer together. As she curved around the bend, a long dock materialized. It was made of fresh, sturdy boards that shined brightly in the sunlight. Ellie brought her engine down to idle speed as she approached. Drawing near, she tossed out a couple of fenders on her port side. The Bayliner bobbed closer, and Ellie grabbed a dock cleat and tied off the bow before moving to the stern and securing that end of the boat. She cut the engine. Closer to the property, a twenty-one foot Bowrider was resting on a lift beneath the shade of a canvas canopy. Ellie stepped on the gunwale then onto the dock, which terminated on a stilt house bearing an unusual ovoid shape and painted bright white, looking like a gargantuan egg. Two tiny windows in the front seemed to resemble a large pair of eyes, and the entire structure looked like it was better suited for an Angry Birds theme park than a stretch of Florida backwater.
Ellie found Barry Corbin’s address online without Jet’s help. The property had no road access, and it took a little extra digging to pinpoint an exact location. The only way in or out was the way she had just entered. Her sneakers came off the dock and crunched into a crushed shell walkway, the sun hot on her skin, the air thick with moisture. A narrow set of steps with a rail on just the right side led up to a door on the side of the egg. Ellie squinted through her sunglasses past the pilings that supported the house and saw sparks flying and dying out mid-air. She took the path around the house to where a wide canopy sat, its roof made of clear corrugated plastic. Thin sheets of steel the siz
e of a door were laid out across a long workbench. On a slim wood-top table sat a jigsaw and a grinder, along with several sizes of ball-peen hammers, metal brushes, clamps, and a band saw. On the ground, sitting at the back edge of the structure, were scorpions, sharks, and what looked like a seagull, all made of welded bolts, nuts, and washers.
A tall, stocky man was leaning over a steel pole. One hand was holding a strip of metal with a pair of pliers while the other gripped a welding torch. He had a sizeable midsection and thick arms. He wore blue jeans, a leather welding jacket, and an auto-darkening helmet. Ellie moved further to his right in hopes that he might catch her movement when he paused to resettle the torch.
It worked, and when he looked in her direction, he stopped and just stared, unmoving for several seconds, as though someone had paused him. Just when she was starting to think he had gotten stuck in the position, he stood erect and turned off the oxygen and fuel gas valves before pushing back his helmet. His thick eyebrows lowered as he squinted at her. “Help you?”
“Yes. I’m sorry to intrude.” There wasn’t much she could offer in the way of banter, so she decided to just get to it. “I wanted to see if I could have a minute of your time to discuss Breakwater.”
He frowned deeply, a long furrow settling in between his eyes. “There some kind of problem?” he asked.
“No, sir. I was speaking with Avi Narrano, and he suggested I come see you. Would you have a couple of minutes?”
He set the torch on a sheet of metal, and when he removed his helmet, it revealed a bald head absent of any sunspots. He put the helmet next to the torch then peeled off his jacket, revealing a sleeveless gray t-shirt. “Avi, huh?” He tossed his gloves onto a metal sawhorse. “Well I haven’t had anything to do with Breakwater in, well, I guess coming up on three years now.” Barry’s head tilted to an angle, and he seemed to study Ellie’s face like he was trying to assemble a cluster of disconnected thoughts.
Ellie said, “You worked with them for quite a while, didn’t you?”