Miami Burn (Titus Book 1)

by John D. Patten

  Her face went steely cold. “Titus, get out of my car.”

  “I need to know, Pam. Was Allie abused by her father?”

  The words escaped her mouth like a lion being let out of a cage to eat a gladiator: “Not once! Not ever! Now get out of my car and leave us alone forever or I will—”

  Her knuckles were white where she gripped the gray leather hand rest. She breathed heavily, near foaming.

  “You will what?” I said.

  “Just get out!” she said. “Get out!”

  People just love telling me to get out of their cars, don’t they? I raised my hands and got out.

  Chester sneered at me as he shut the door.

  “Chet,” I said, “I’ve got to throw you a compliment. You are the best sneerer I’ve ever known. Did you go to sneering school? You could teach sneering. I’d sign up for a sneering lesson if you were the teacher.”

  He ignored me, got in the car, and they drove off.

  I turned and looked at the two Coral Gables cops. They stood near the entrance and stared at me with folded arms.

  “I’m going, I’m going,” I said with my hands up as I got in Luther’s truck.

  I caught the eye of the wrinkly man with his scraggly tousle of salt-and-pepper hair. He hadn’t moved. I wondered if he ever moved. Still the faint chiseled smile under cold gray eyes. I felt a twist in my stomach. The twist became a full-on tightening of my muscles all over.

  As I pulled back out onto Old Cutler Road and turned right, I saw a black SUV parked near the corner with its engine running.

  I got a sinking feeling.

  You know what, though? Fuck it. I don’t care anymore. I’m done. I’m out. This is too fucked up to continue. Done. Done done done. So fucking done with Pam Hayes, Rexford J. Hayes, Allie Hayes, Jake Preston, Jason Stark, JoJo Burley, Eddie Corrado, and Morton Hinraker.

  Fuck all of you.

  Time to clear my head and shrug it all off. I threw in the next CD without looking at it. The Grass Roots’ horn section kicked into “Midnight Confessions”.

  “Ha!” I said and hit the gas, breaking some local ordinances. I cranked the volume, shut the AC, and opened the windows. A hot breeze blew my hair all around as I belted out the lyrics, nobody listening but the old banyans and an occasional dog-walker as I sped past.

  I’m free. Free and done. Time to focus on my unfinished task on West Lido Drive. Point, shoot, done. Bye bye Miami.

  Just as I hit the soulless Dixie Highway again, the daily deluge started. Headlights popped on everywhere as the world turned dark. I rolled up the windows and pulled out into traffic, bolts of lightning shattering all around.

  Then, my phone rang. I looked at the name and smiled. Sofia.

  Hot damn.

  “I knew you’d give in sooner or later,” I said.

  There was a pause and she said, “Where are you?”

  “On my way to your place with a bottle of wine.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously? In a borrowed truck on Dixie Highway drowning in rain and traffic somewhere near Coconut Grove.”

  “You know where the Arthur Godfrey Bridge is? Where it crosses the Biscayne Waterway at 41st Street?”

  “How could I forget?” I laughed. “That’s where we first met when you pulled me over that night. I love it. Let’s redo that night, just like in the movie Groundhog Day. You pull me over and arrest me, my punishment is you force me to take you to dinner. Just don’t make the cuffs too tight.”

  “Titus,” she said in a cutting business-like tone, “this is serious. Meet me there.”

  “Okay.”

  She hung up.

  The sinking feeling returned.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I PARKED BEHIND A CRUISER WITH ITS BLUES FLASHING and leaped out in the middle of the stopped cars on 41st Street. It had taken me a full forty-five minutes in the storm and traffic. The sun was back out and there was a commotion going on.

  A helicopter buzzed overhead. News vans were all over, reporters talking into cameras.

  A line of police tape surrounded an area in a parking lot behind a bank. The parking lot fronted the Biscayne Waterway which ran under West 41st Street. A white tent had been set up on the grassy spot between the parking lot and the water. Uniformed officers surrounded the area while technicians in white baggy suits and booties walked around with various devices.

  Across the waterway, painted on the side of an old building named the Roosevelt, was a graffiti art mural that read Welcome to Miami Beach. Its cheery cartoon bird and smiling sun looked horribly out of place. A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk on the bridge. Everyone was watching, talking, and taking videos with their phones.

  In the middle of the police activity, I recognized Sofia in her black pantsuit. She was talking with several other plainclothes cops, their badges on belt hooks. I caught a glimpse of something on a long table in the tent.

  My stomach sank. Even though I’m not sure if Allie is worth saving anymore, I don’t want to see her dead.

  I walked up to the two uniforms nearest me, who were blocking people from the scene.

  “You can’t come through here, sir,” one said. “You’ll need to cross over to the other side.”

  “I was invited,” I said. “Call her over there, in the black pantsuit.”

  “Who?”

  “Detective Sergeant De Jesus-Montero,” I said.

  Sofia caught my eye and waved me over. I gestured toward the uniforms. She gave them a thumbs-up sign and waved me over again. They looked at each other and grunted. One gestured with his thumb backward for me to pass.

  I walked around the metal railing down into the bank parking lot. Several bank employees had gathered by the door. One of them was crying. I went past the yellow pylons to the makeshift command center, my heart beating faster.

  Sofia met me at the perimeter of the tape. She stood with a tall gray-haired man and a muscular black woman.

  “Titus,” she said, “this is Detective Belson from the Homicide Divison. He’s in charge here.”

  I nodded, he nodded, both of us sizing each other up.

  “This is Lieutenant Brown of OCS,” Sofia said.

  I nodded at the black woman, who shot eye-daggers at me.

  “So you’re the amateur investigator,” said Lieutenant Brown. “I should arrest you right now.”

  I smiled. Her eyes bored into me. She stood like a prizefighter taunting an opponent. My instinct told me she’d be tough to take down.

  “But I need you,” she said, “to identify a body and then answer some questions. Follow me.”

  The four of us walked over to the tent, the rumble of helicopter rotors overhead. Halfway there, the Lieutenant turned and shouted at a uniformed sergeant who looked like he was in charge of the perimeter: “Davis, I told you to get that thing out of here!”

  “Yes, lieutenant,” Davis said, picked up a radio, and yelled into it.

  I held my breath as we walked into the tent. The first thing I noticed were long male legs in dark jeans. I breathed a sigh of relief. Not that I wished harm on anyone, but if it was Allie I was afraid I’d drive back to Coral Gables and make an even bigger scene, one that would land me back in jail.

  Lieutenant Brown uncovered his face, everyone staring at me as I looked down. His right eye—in fact, a huge chunk of the right side of his face—was missing and the features were deformed from having been in the water, but I recognized him.

  Testarossa is down.

  “You know him?” said Lieutenant Brown.

  “Jake Preston,” I said.

  She covered his face again and the four of us walked out of the tent to stand on the grassy spot near the riverbank. I felt naked as what seemed like half of Miami took videos of us.

  “Sofia said you were looking for Jake Preston,” said Lieutenant Brown.

  “That is correct, lieutenant,” I said.

  “Why were you looking for him?”

  I gave her a brief sketc
h of what I was hired to do and what I found, leaving out the fact I found Allie at Hinraker’s last night.

  “Did you threaten Jake Preston?” said Lieutenant Brown.

  “No,” I said, “I only told him I’d find Allie.”

  “So you did confront him.”

  “Yeah, I talked with him at Sinz.”

  “Sins?”

  “Sinz with a z. The club over on Ocean Drive.”

  One eyebrow went up. The lieutenant looked sharply at Sofia.

  “Do you have any idea who might have shot Mr. Preston with a small-caliber handgun at close range?” said Lieutenant Brown.

  “No,” I said.

  “You’re a terrible liar, Titus. I will ask you once, and only once. Do you know where Allie Hayes is?”

  “No.”

  She glared at me intensely.

  “It’s a good thing Sofia vouches for you,” she said. “Because otherwise you’d be taken in for questioning right now. If you find Miss Hayes, you are hereby directed to contact the Miami-Dade Police Department immediately. Otherwise, you will stay away from this matter. If I even smell you anywhere near anything we are doing, you will spend a month living with some people who make alligators seem friendly.”

  “Oh, no worries there,” I said. “I’m done with this case, trust me.”

  “Are you giving me lip?”

  “No, I’m serious. The Hayeses don’t want me around anymore. They’ve been perfectly clear about that.”

  “Don’t blame them. Just remember what I said.”

  She and Belson walked back to the tent. Sofia stayed with me, her arms folded.

  “Why is OCS here?” I said. “Wouldn’t homicide run this?”

  “We were working on something involving Jake Preston,” said Sofia. “Can’t talk about it—even though now it’s dead in the water. I can tell you that I don’t think this has anything to do with that. This was an amateur job.”

  “When was the body discovered?”

  “About three hours ago. Bank employee found him floating right there by the riverbank.”

  “I’m no forensics expert, but he looks like he may have been submerged for more than forty-eight hours.”

  “So far, that’s what the M.E. says but we can’t be sure.”

  “Two days ago was Monday, which was three days after I saw him at Sinz on Friday night. Today is Wednesday.”

  I stared across the waterway at a reporter making gestures toward the tent while talking into the camera. I shook my head and folded my arms.

  “What are you thinking?” Sofia said.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Do you know an Eddie Corrado?”

  “Yeah, lowlife thug. Works for Tommy Nero. Not that we can prove that.”

  “I ran into him at Sinz. We didn’t hit it off.”

  “You think he’s involved with this?”

  “He seems to want to scare me off. He’s responsible for my new nose.”

  “I saw that. You okay?”

  “Yes, and thanks for asking right away.”

  “You’re a dick. What’s with the Hayeses? Why do they suddenly want you to drop finding Allie?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “Tried to talk to Pam just an hour ago, but they suddenly hate me. Rex even tried to paid me a ridiculous amount of money to drop it, so I’m pretty much off the case. Nobody wants me to find Allie Hayes. So fuck ‘em all.”

  Sofia bit her lip and looked down at the grass. I watched her bite her lip and look down at the grass.

  “Do you think Allie killed Jake Preston?” she said.

  “She’d be my number one suspect,” I said, “but I’m not so sure. She and Jake have an odd relationship. I went into this with the idea that maybe Jake Preston manipulated Allie into all this shit, but now I wonder if it was the other way around. I’m thinking now that Jake was just a means to an end.”

  “Means to an end, how?”

  “Allie has a fling with this Jake Preston boy who is a bad fit for the parents. They hire a private investigator named Tom Langston, who finds her and brings her back. Everything returns o normal. Allie goes to college, dates a nice country club boy her mom finds for her, and becomes the family darling again. Then, something happens. I don’t know what. Whatever it is causes Allie to flip, quit college, and run back to Jake. Maybe because she loves him. Or maybe she runs back to Jake because they’re birds of a feather. Whatever it is, I think they work together to blackmail her father into paying for their love shack.”

  “Blackmail him with what?” Sofia said.

  “Like I said, I’m only speculating here. I have no evidence, but my gut tells me that Rexford J. Hayes abused Allie and she has some sort of proof. That’s why he pays their rent and writes checks like this.”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the big torn check from Foundation Investments LLC. I handed it to her.

  “Holy shit,” she said.

  “I know,” I said.

  “You tore this?”

  “I did.”

  Her eyes sparkled and she smiled.

  “So what was with the mother hiring you?” she said.

  “That’s the part that doesn’t fit,” I said. “If Allie is living with Jake Preston in a house that’s roundabout paid for by her own father just to shut the two kids up, then why keep it a secret from the mother?”

  “Daddy-daughter secret?”

  “Maybe. Pam Hayes reacted badly when I presented her with this notion. Maybe she doesn’t know about the abuse. Maybe she wants to find Allie to confront her and find out if he really did it.”

  Sofia rolled her eyes. “God, this is why I don’t want kids.”

  I looked up at the graffiti art, the cartoon bird still smiling at me and welcoming me to Miami Beach.

  “Strange this happens here,” I said, “the very spot where you pulled me over that night.”

  Sofia glanced up at the mural. I felt an electrical charge hovering between us.

  “Yeah,” she said, “I noticed.”

  “Luther says there are no coincidences.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Not sure.”

  We looked into each others’ eyes for a good long beat. The electrical charge grew. I’d better leave before I kiss her on live television.

  “Okay,” I said, turning to walk away, “I’m out of here.”

  “Can I keep this?” she said, holding up the torn check.

  “Would you give it back if I said no?”

  “No.”

  I smiled and headed across the parking lot toward the crowd.

  “Hey,” she said. I turned and looked back. “Keep me updated in case you hear anything.”

  “And risk the wrath of Bad Bad Lieutenant Brown? I thought both you and she wanted me off this case.”

  “That’s officially true. But keep me updated in case you hear anything,” she repeated in a more demanding tone.

  Was that a hint of a smile as she turned to walk away? Yes it was. Hot damn.

  “Yes, officer,” I said.

  As I walked back to the truck, I felt it again. What is that? Could it be? A little hint of joy? Really? Who am I?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I FILLED THE GAS TANK AT THE CHEVRON ON ALTON Road and dropped the truck back at the church. There was nobody there and the office was locked, so I hid the keys and texted the location to Luther.

  Fighting the overwhelming urge for a cigarette, I walked up Washington Ave to the Art Deco Supermarket to buy dinner. At 5th Street, my phone vibrated with a text. I looked at it.

  Shit. It was Bri:

  Hi madman. =)

  I ignored it. At 7th Street, I got another one:

  Sash and I are at a private pool on a roofdeck, 8th and Ocean , come play

  There were three emojis performing acts I didn’t know emojis could perform. I texted back:

  Thx busy

  She sent another text: a winking emoji with a naked picture of herself. I didn’t reply. I’m no prude,
but sex is like scratching an itch to these kids. I saved the picture, though.

  At 11th Street, my phone vibrated again. I was about to call Bri and tell her I can’t do this “hookup” shit, but the new text was from an unknown number. It read:

  You are being followed by a pro cleaner who goes by the name of Z. Just the letter. Lean and short with gray hair. Age about 55. Drives a silver Audi A5. Watch your back.

  My skin tightened all over. “Cleaner” is law enforcement slang for professional hired killer.

  The world compressed inward on my location standing in front of the 11th Street Diner. I scanned all directions, senses heightened, my hand tapping my gun. No silver Audi A5 in sight.

  Who would send a text to warn me? How would that person know I’m being followed by a hit man? Fuck, I get the feeling I’m not going to be able to let go of all this Allie Hayes bullshit even if I want to.

  I continued walking on high alert to the Art Deco Supermarket, covertly scrutinizing my surroundings—every face, every storefront, every car—hunting for signs of anything out of the ordinary.

  Once inside, I did a quick scan of the five other people there. Nobody looked like a hit man. I took out my phone and texted back to the unknown number:

  Who are you?

  The message instantly came back as undeliverable. Whoever sent the warning is a pro, too.

  I selected a meal of pork, rice, and zucchini with a lime soda. I was at the cashier about to pay when a hand reached in front of me from my left. I nearly grabbed my gun until I saw it was a slender amber-skinned hand.

  “I pay for him,” said a soft female voice with a Latina accent, handing the cashier a ten-dollar bill.

  I turned and saw the sixteen-ish girl whose food I paid for a few days ago. The world stopped on its axis.