by Jeff Lindsay
“If I ever have to do that again,” she said through her teeth, “I’ll turn in my goddamn badge.”
“If you ever try to do it again,” I said, “Captain Matthews will take it from you himself.”
“Jesus fuck,” she said. “Was it as bad as it felt?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Much worse.”
I suppose my sour mood prevented me from seeing it coming, but Debs whacked me with an arm punch. On the one hand, it was nice to see her recovering from her ordeal. But on the other hand, it really hurt.
“Thanks for the support,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.” She turned and began pushing angrily through the crowd, and I followed, rubbing my arm.
Reporters are odd creatures. They have to think very highly of themselves in order to do their job at all, and clearly some of them who had seen Deborah’s pitiful performance must have been very good at that kind of self-delusion, because they apparently believed that if they only shoved a microphone at Debs and shouted a question, she would cave in under the pressure of their perfect hair and teeth and blurt out an answer. Unfortunately for their professional self-esteem, however, Deborah just kept moving forward, batting away anything they put in front of her, and pushing hard at anyone foolish enough to stand in her way. And even the reporters standing back toward the exit, who saw quite clearly what happened to their colleagues, thought so highly of themselves that they tried the exact same thing—and seemed surprised when they got the same result.
Because I was following Deborah, several of them eyed me speculatively, but after many years of diligent maintenance, my disguise was too good for them, and they all decided that I was exactly what I wanted to appear—an absolute nonentity with no answers to anything. And so, relatively unmolested, battered only on the upper arm from Deborah’s arm punch, I made it out of the press conference and, with my sister, back to the task force command center on the second floor.
Somewhere along the way, Deke joined us, trickling in behind to lean against the wall. Somebody had set up a coffee machine and Deborah poured some into a Styrofoam cup. She sipped it and made a face. “This is worse than the coffee service stuff,” she said.
“We could go for breakfast,” I said hopefully.
Debs put down the cup and sat down. “We got too much to do,” she said. “What time is it?”
“Eight forty-five,” Deke said, and Deborah looked at him sourly, as if he had chosen an unpleasant time. “What,” he said. “It is.”
The door swung open and Detective Hood came in. “I am so fucking good I scare myself,” he said as he swaggered over and slumped into a seat in front of Deborah.
“Scare me, too, Richard,” Deborah said. “What have you got?”
Hood pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “In record time,” he said. “Tyler Spanos’s 2009 blue convertible Porsche.” He flicked a finger at the paper, making a popping sound. “Guy runs a chop shop, he owed me a favor; I cut him a break last year.” He shrugged. “It woulda been his third fall, so he called me with this.” He flicked the paper again. “It’s in a repaint place up at Opa-Locka,” he said. “I got a squad car there now, holding the guys were painting it, a couple of Haitians.” He tossed the paper on the desk in front of Deborah. “Who’s your daddy?” he said.
“Get out there,” Debs said. “I want to know who sold it to them, and I don’t care how you find out.”
Hood gave her a huge meat-eating smile. “Cool,” he said. “Sometimes I love this job.” He slid up and out of the chair with a surprising grace and was out the door and away, whistling “Here Comes the Sun.”
Deborah watched him go and as the door swung closed she said, “Our first break, and that dickhead gets it for me.”
“Hey, I dunno, break?” Deke said. “By the time they’re painting it, won’t be any prints or anything.”
Debs looked at him with an expression that would have sent me scurrying under the furniture. “Somebody got stupid, Deke,” she said, with a little extra emphasis on the word “stupid.” “They should have put the car in a sinkhole, but somebody wanted to make a quick couple of grand, so they sold it. And if we find who sold it to them—”
“We find the girl,” Deke said.
Deborah looked at him, and her face looked almost fond. “That’s right, Deke,” she said. “We find the girl.”
“Okay, then,” Deke said.
The door swung open again, and Detective Alvarez came in. “You’re gonna love this,” he said, and Deborah looked at him expectantly.
“You found Bobby Acosta?” she said.
Alvarez shook his head. “The Spanos family is here to see you,” he said.
EIGHTEEN
IF THE MAN WHO CAME THROUGH THE DOOR FIRST WAS Mr. Spanos, then Tyler’s father was a twenty-eight-year-old bodybuilder with a ponytail and a suspicious bulge under his left arm. That would have meant he fathered Tyler at the age of ten, which seemed to be pushing the envelope, even in Miami. But whoever this man was, he was very serious, and he looked the room over carefully, which included glaring at me and Deke, before he stuck his head back into the hall and nodded.
The next man into the room looked a little bit more like you would hope a teenage girl’s father might look. He was middle-aged, relatively short, and a little chubby, with thinning hair and gold-rimmed glasses. His face was sweaty and tired and his mouth hung open as if he had to gasp for breath. He staggered into the room, looked helplessly around for a moment, and then stood in front of Deborah, blinking and breathing heavily.
A woman came hustling in behind him. She was younger and several inches taller, with reddish blond hair and way too much very good jewelry. She was followed by another young bodybuilder, this time with a buzz cut instead of a ponytail. He carried a medium-size aluminum suitcase and he closed the door behind him and leaned against the doorframe. The woman marched over to where Deborah sat, pulled a chair out, and guided Mr. Spanos into it. “Sit down,” she said to him. “And close your mouth.” Mr. Spanos looked at her, blinked some more, and then let her lever him into the chair by his elbow, although he did not close his mouth.
The woman looked around and found another chair at the conference table, and pulled it over beside Mr. Spanos. She sat, looked at him, and then shook her head before turning her attention to Deborah.
“Sergeant—Morgan?” she said, as if unsure of the name.
“That’s right,” Deborah said.
The woman looked hard at Deborah for a moment, as if she was hoping my sister would morph into Clint Eastwood. She pursed her lips, took a breath, and said, “I’m Daphne Spanos. Tyler’s mother.”
Deborah nodded. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said.
Mr. Spanos sobbed. It was a very wet sound, and it took Deborah by surprise, because she goggled at him as if he had started to sing.
“Stop it,” Daphne Spanos said to him. “You have to pull yourself together.”
“My little girl,” he said, and it was very clear that he was not really pulling himself together quite yet.
“She’s my little girl, too, goddamn it,” Daphne hissed at him. “Now quit blubbering.” Mr. Spanos looked down at his feet and shook his head, but at least he did not make any more wet noises. Instead he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and then sat up as straight as he could and looked at Deborah.
“You’re in charge of finding the animals that did this,” he said to Debs. “That killed my little girl.” And I thought he was going to snivel again, but he clamped his jaw shut tightly, and nothing more came out except a ragged breath.
“It’s a task force, Mr. Spanos,” she said. “We have a team made up of officers from all the different branches of—”
Mr. Spanos held up his hand and waved it to cut her off. “I don’t care about the team,” he said. “They said you’re in charge. Are you?”
Deborah glanced at Alvarez, who looked away with a suddenly very innocent face. She looked back at Spanos. “That�
�s right,” Deborah said.
He stared at her for a long moment. “Why not a man?” he said. “Is this a politically correct thing, they put a woman in charge?”
I could see Alvarez struggling to control himself; Deborah didn’t need to struggle. She was used to this, which is not the same thing as saying she liked it. “I am in charge,” she said, “because I am the best and I have earned it. If you have a problem with that, too bad.”
Spanos looked at her, shook his head. “I don’t like this,” he said. “It should be a man.”
“Mr. Spanos,” Deborah said, “if you have something to say, spit it out. If not—I am trying to catch a killer here, and you are wasting my time.” She glared at him, and he looked uncertain. He glanced at his wife, who compressed her lips and then nodded, and Spanos turned to Mr. Ponytail. “Clear the room,” he said, and Ponytail took a step toward Deke.
“Back off,” Deborah barked, and Ponytail froze. “We’re not clearing the room,” she said. “This is a police station.”
“I have something for your ears only,” Spanos said. “I want it confidential.”
“I’m a cop,” Debs said. “You want confidential, get a lawyer.”
“No,” Spanos said. “This is for you only, for the head of the investigation, not these other guys.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Debs said.
“Just this once,” Spanos said urgently. “It’s my little girl.”
“Mr. Spanos,” Deborah said.
Mrs. Spanos leaned forward. “Please,” she said. “It will only take a minute.” She reached over and grabbed Deborah’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s important,” she said. “For the investigation.” She saw Deborah look uncertain, just for a second, and she squeezed the hand again. “It will help you find them,” she said in a seductive whisper.
Deborah pulled her hand away and looked at the two of them. Then she glanced up at me for an opinion, and I admit I was curious, so I just shrugged.
“Your guys wait in the hall,” Deborah said at last. “I’ll send out two of my guys.”
Spanos shook his head. “Just you and us,” he said. “So it’s family.”
Deborah jerked her head in my direction. “My brother stays,” she said, and Mr. and Mrs. Spanos looked at me.
“Your brother,” he said, and looked at Mrs. Spanos; she nodded. “All right.”
“Mackenzie,” Mr. Spanos said, holding out his hand. The guy with the buzz cut came over and gave him the suitcase. “You and Harold wait outside,” Spanos said, placing the suitcase on his lap, and the two bodybuilders marched to the door and went out. “Sergeant?” he said to Debs, and she waved at Deke.
“Deke, Alvarez,” she said, “keep an eye on those two guys in the hall.”
“I’m s’posa keep an eye on you,” Deke said. “Captain said.”
“Get out,” Debs said. “Two minutes.”
Deke stared at her stubbornly for a moment, and then Alvarez stepped over and put a hand on his back. “Come on, sport,” he said. “Boss lady says go, we go.”
Deke jutted out his dimpled chin at Deborah, and for just a second he looked every inch the manly Saturday-morning TV hero. “Two minutes,” he said. He looked at her a little longer, as if he was going to say something else, but apparently he couldn’t think of anything, so he merely turned away and went out. Alvarez gave Debs a mocking smile and followed.
The door closed behind them, and for a second nobody moved. Then Mr. Spanos made a grunting noise and plopped the aluminum suitcase into Deborah’s lap. “Open it,” he said.
Deborah stared at him. “Go on, open it,” he said. “It won’t explode.”
She stared for just a second longer, and then she looked down at the suitcase. It had two locks holding it closed and she slowly undid them and then, with a last look at Spanos, she flipped the lid open.
Deborah looked inside and froze absolutely still, her hand motionless on the raised lid and her face caught between expressions—and then she looked up at Spanos with one of the coldest expressions I had ever seen. “What the fuck is this,” she said through her teeth.
Having human feelings was new to me, but having curiosity was not, and I leaned forward for a look, and it did not take a great deal of scrutiny to see what the fuck it was.
It was money. Lots of it.
From the visible top layer it appeared to be bundles of hundred-dollar bills, all with the bank’s tape around them. The suitcase was crammed full, so full that I didn’t see how Spanos had gotten it closed, unless Mr. Ponytail had stood on top while Spanos locked it.
“Half a million dollars,” Spanos said. “In cash. Untraceable. I deliver it anywhere you say. Cayman Islands bank, whatever.”
“For what,” Deborah said in a very flat voice, and, if he had known her as I did, Mr. Spanos should have gotten very nervous.
But Spanos did not know Deborah, and he seemed to gain confidence from the fact that she had asked what it was for. He smiled, not really a happy smile, more like he wanted to show his face could still do that. “For almost nothing,” he said. “Just this.” He held up his hand and wagged one finger in the air. “When you find the animals that killed my little girl …” His voice broke a little and he stopped, took his glasses off, and wiped them on his sleeve. He put the glasses back on, cleared his throat, and looked at Deborah again. “When you find them, you tell me first. That’s all. Ten minutes before you do anything else. One phone call to me. And that money is all yours.”
Deborah stared at him. He stared back, and for a few seconds he was no longer a sniveling, snuffling man, but instead a man who always knew exactly what he wanted, and exactly how to get it.
I looked at the money in the still-open suitcase. Half a million dollars. It seemed like an awful lot. I had never really been motivated by money—after all, I had not gone to law school. Money to me had always been merely something the sheep used to show each other how wonderful they were. But now, as I looked at the stacks of cash in the suitcase, it did not look like abstract markers for keeping score. It looked like ballet lessons for Lily Anne. An entire college education. Pony rides and new dresses and braces and finding shells on the beach in the Bahamas. And it was all right there in that one small suitcase, winking its sly greenbacked eyes and saying, Why not? What could it hurt?
And then I realized that the silence had gone on a little too long for comfort, and I tore my eyes away from Lily Anne’s future happiness and looked up to Deborah’s face. As far as I could tell neither she nor Spanos had changed expression. But at last Deborah took a deep breath and put the suitcase on the floor and looked back at Spanos.
“Pick it up,” she said, and she nudged it toward him with her foot.
“It’s yours,” he told her, shaking his head.
“Mr. Spanos,” she said, “it is a felony to bribe a police officer.”
“What bribe?” he said. “It’s a gift. Take it.”
“Pick it up, and get it out of here,” she said.
“It’s one phone call,” he said. “Is that such a crime?”
“I am very sorry for your loss,” Deborah said very slowly. “And if you pick that up and get it out of here right now, I will forget this happened. But if it is still there when the other detectives come back in, you are going to jail.”
“I understand,” Spanos said. “You can’t say anything right now; that’s fine. But take my card, call me when you find them, the money’s yours.” He flipped a business card to her and Deborah stood up, letting the card fall to the floor.
“Go home, Mr. Spanos,” she said. “Take that suitcase with you.” And she walked past him to the door and opened it.
“Just call me,” Spanos said to her back, but his wife was once again more practical.
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said. She leaned down and grabbed the suitcase and, with a mighty shove down on the top, just barely got it locked before Deke and Alvarez came back in with the two bodyguards. Mrs. Spanos handed the
suitcase to the one with the buzz cut and stood up. “Come on,” she said to her husband. He looked at her, and then he turned and looked at Deborah by the door.
“Call me,” he said.
She held the door open. “Good-bye, Mr. Spanos,” she said.
He looked at her for a few seconds more, and then Mrs. Spanos took him by the elbow and led him out.
Deborah closed the door and let out a loud breath, then turned around and went back to her chair. Alvarez watched her sit, grinning. She looked up at him before he could wipe the smile off.
“Very fucking funny, Alvarez,” she snarled.
Deke came over and leaned in the same spot he’d been leaning before the interruption. “How much?” he asked her.
Deborah looked at him in surprise. “What?”
Deke shrugged. “I said, how much?” he said. “How much was in the suitcase?”
Deborah shook her head. “Half a million,” she said.
Deke snorted. “Chump change,” he said. “Guy in Syracuse tried to give my buddy Jerry Kozanski two mil, and it was only a rape.”
“That’s nothing,” Alvarez said. “Few years ago one of the cocaine cowboys offered me three million for the junkie that stole his car.”
“Three million and you didn’t take it?” Deke said.
“Ah,” Alvarez said, “I was holding out for four.”
“All right,” Deborah said. “We lost enough time with that shit. Let’s get back to it.” She pointed at Alvarez. “I got no time for your crap. I want Bobby Acosta. Go get him.”
And as Alvarez sauntered out the door, I thought that suddenly half a million dollars didn’t seem like that much money, not for an entire eaten daughter. And because it was such a small amount, it also seemed like it wouldn’t be such a big deal to take it from Spanos for something so trivial as a simple phone call. Yet Deborah apparently felt absolutely no temptation, and even Deke acted like it was something funny and commonplace, nothing at all out of the ordinary.