Caribbean Rain

by Rick Murcer

  Alex Downs was the best CSI on the planet, even though his outward appearance would tag him as more of an accountant. He was paunchy with thinning hair and black-rimmed glasses reminiscent of the ‘70s, but his appearance belied a brilliant mind, and even more than that, a loyal friend.

  Sophie Lee. There just weren’t enough words to describe his Chinese-American, longtime partner and friend. Smartass, sarcastic, and crazy covered much of it, but bright, energetic, and fearless weren’t far behind. The two of them were as much family to Manny as anyone. That made him smile. And now they were both joining him in the BAU. They’d been through some intense training over the last two months and had a few more hoops to jump through, but having Alex and Sophie covering his backside like old times was, well, nothing could’ve suited him more.

  The short, slender waitress filled his cup and moved to the next table.

  Sipping his coffee, his thinking shifted to his daughter Jen. She was halfway through her senior year, embracing everything her final year in high school should be, and growing up faster and smarter every day, it seemed, in the course of time. That fact led him to remember how much Jen resembled her deceased mom Louise. Her speech, her mannerisms, even the way she spoke to Manny.

  He’d be a liar if he’d said it didn’t hurt, every once in a while at least, to watch her evolution from teenager to young woman. There was no question that she was going to mature into her mother’s daughter. He sighed. There would always be a special place in his heart for Louise, maybe more than special, and it had been beyond difficult to move on after her death, but that’s where Chloe Franson came in.

  Thinking of Chloe always made his insides quiver. Her emerald eyes and flowing red hair were only the beginning of who she was. Beautiful? Yes. Smart? Yes. But there was nothing that compared to her heart—and especially her heart for him. There had been electricity between them from the first time they’d shaken hands, but now that they’d made a vow to each other, it was more like an eternal storm. He ran his hand through his hair. That storm made waiting all the more difficult.

  When he’d gone to Ireland to tell her how he felt, and that he wanted to be with her, he’d given her a Claddagh ring that symbolized his commitment to her. They cried, they kissed, and that fire they’d both felt had grown into a raging inferno. He wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted Louise this much. But his “Boy Scout” convictions had won out. No sex until they said “I do.” He knew how most of the world looked at that, but he didn’t care. Some things were more important. He’d made that pledge to God, and himself, and would stick to it. He wanted to be an example to Jen. It would be hard to preach one thing, like abstinence, if he were breaking the rules himself.

  Chloe had told him a hundred times since then that she understood, but it was getting tougher, for both of them. The way she touched him, her walk, her scent, her pure, unadulterated love for him confused things even more. She’d even suggested that they take cold showers . . . together. He smiled. The woman was just no help.

  His Irish love had also made Jen feel comfortable. They’d talked, even laughed a time or two, but the thought of someone, even Chloe, taking her mother’s place at his side was still something Jen was working through. He exhaled. Hell, they were all working through that, but Jen was a special young lady. Then there was that dream—

  The sound of loud voices interrupted Manny’s world, and he glanced at the front door just as two men wearing long, black coats and ski masks entered the restaurant. The first man was shorter than the other, and much thicker, but both were carrying large handguns, Berettas maybe. The taller man held one of the waitresses around the neck, moving his gun to the side of her head.

  “Everyone stay where you are and you get to leave on your feet,” he yelled, his voice deep and tinted with a Latino accent.

  The short man scanned the breakfast crowd and honed in on Manny. He then strode toward him, raising his weapon.

  “Ah. Detective Williams. Are you ready to meet your maker?”

  Chapter-3

  He stood, leaning against the antique, mahogany armoire, looking at his calloused hands. He turned them over and over, reflecting on what they were capable of and what they had already efficiently completed. Never had it entered his thoughts that they, or he, would be so important to “the work.” He’d traveled a path like so many others who thought education was the trail to illumination. But in the end, he’d been wrong. His supposedly enlightened professors and colleagues understood nothing concerning what it took to accomplish a gallant endeavor; they lived and died with theory. And his mission, his purpose, was nothing, if not gallant.

  When he’d set his sights on a college education, despite his humble beginnings in Chicago, he’d thought of nothing else. Each day, he consumed what his teachers were serving. Each night, he read until his mother ambled into his room to his warped, two-drawer dresser to shut off the cracked tiffany lamp that glowed bright then dim from the short in the wiring. But it was enough.

  She’d kiss him and tell him to go to sleep. But there were nights when he wasn’t ready. Nights where the book he had been reading had taken his mind, his emotion, his imagination to an exciting new destination, and he simply had to finish. On those nights, he’d pull out the old, yellow flashlight from under his mattress, cover his head with the tattered quilt, and continue reading until he’d finished, or had fallen asleep trying. Several times, the sun was peeking through his window when he closed his eyes. He knew his mother knew, but she wanted him to read, to learn. He loved her for it. They didn’t have much, but they had that.

  Then it all ended so abruptly, he’d barely had time to understand. His mom had stabbed a man at the bar where she worked when he tried to steal her purse that held the month’s rent. The man died, and his mom went away for twenty years; and in essence, so did he, becoming a victim of Chicago’s foster care system. He rarely stayed more than six months in any one home. Some of the families were kind; some were not. But he hung in there and finally hooked up in one place long enough to finish high school.

  But he’d more than finished, hadn’t he? He carried a perfect 4.0 through some thirteen schools, and it had earned him an Ivy League scholarship.

  A few months later, he was on his way to the East Coast and brave new worlds.

  After his first year of college, he’d spent a summer in Puerto Rico, doing volunteer work at El Yunque National Rainforest. The first time he laid eyes on her, he knew what he wanted to do. It had become as apparent as those almost-mystical revelations could be. He was going to take care of El Yunque. Educate people regarding her. It was the reason he had been born, and more importantly, he knew it.

  Finishing his undergraduate degree, flawlessly and in less than three years, had set up his graduate career, and by the time he reached his twenty-fourth birthday, he was a full-fledged doctor of environmental science. His research papers and subsequent dissertation regarding rainforest habitat destruction and utility had met with international acclaim. So much so that he’d been the keynote speaker at the International Conference on Science and Technology two years in a row, an accomplishment that had never been achieved before. One of his speeches included a session on how human interaction in El Yunque could cause irreparable damage if camping and tourist interactions weren’t regulated more stringently. One reporter covering the event said he was a man among children in his field, but acknowledged that tourism, and rum production, was what made Puerto Rico roll and it would take an act of God to accomplish what his lecture had suggested.

  If they only knew.

  During that time, he’d became obsessed with reconnecting with his mother and finally found her in one of the southern suburbs of Chicago. He remembered knocking on the door of the tiny apartment and how special their reunion had been. They’d spent the night talking about everything, especially where his life had taken him. She was so proud. The look in her eyes said so. How could he ever forget that? The love, the satisfaction. Nothing matches the approval radi
ating from the eyes of a parent. Nothing. But he’d never see it again, thanks to them.

  Over the next few years, he’d visited his mother as much as he could and constantly asked her to join him, but she refused. Chicago was her home, and she wanted to stay there.

  He walked away from the armoire, stood next to the window facing the east, and watched the sun rise over his precious El Yunque. He had considered moving back to be with her, but that would have taken him far away from his rainforest, and this was his home. A move back to Chicago wouldn’t work for him on many levels, including his guest-teaching position at two of the local universities. The phone sitting on the lampstand suddenly drew his attention. It was nearly eight a.m. and that’s when they would talk practically every morning since they’d reconnected those seven years ago. She’d tell him about the snow and wind of Chicago, and he’d tell her it was eighty-five degrees and not a cloud in the sky. She’d laugh like mothers do, and it helped to begin his day on the upbeat side of this life. But the phone hadn’t rung for three months to the day. It never would again unless she, somehow, figured out how to call from beyond the grave.

  Reaching for the sixteenth-century German rapier hanging from his belt, he gripped the hilt, drew it from the sheath, and hugged it tightly.

  He’d begged her, again, to move to San Juan with him. He’d buy her a nice condo overlooking the ocean, and it would be like old times—before they’d taken her away from him. She always said she was thinking about it, but he knew it would never happen. Then finally, in October, she had agreed to fly down to see him for two weeks. They’d shopped, ate at great restaurants, and he’d taken her to beautiful El Yunque. In some ways, it was like introducing your girlfriend to your mother. He wanted her to approve, and she had—until they’d encountered those out-of-control campers. Gripping the sword tighter now at the memory, his hand dug into the ornate crosspiece, but he didn’t really feel it. He bit his lip and closed his eyes on the vivid picture of three young men, toting full camping backpacks, hurrying down the steep steps to the La Mina waterfalls.

  The weather had been perfect. He could still recall the singing birds and the smell of fresh rain. She’d even commented on the difference of the air compared to the city.

  They’d stopped at the bamboo-covered rest area, which was just before the last, severely abrupt set of stairs that descended to the bottom of the falls and the churning, emerald pool waiting there. They’d listened closely and heard the water rushing over the thirty-five-foot ledge. She’d grinned in anticipation.

  Just then, the first camper of the three nearly ran into them both in his haste to reach the falls at the bottom of the trail, managing to avoid them at the last second. He’d turned to tell the camper to slow down and be more careful when he’d heard it. The second young man had lost his balance, and plowed directly into his mother. The third, unable to correct his path, crashed into both his mother and the second camper. In slow motion, he watched his mother tumble down the steps, entangled in a swirling mass of arms and legs. A split-second later, the sickening crack of bone on concrete echoed through the trees as the three of them churned over the steps.

  By the time they’d fallen to the landing below, it was over. The two men were able to get back on their feet, but not his mother. She lay on the small deck, her head turned at an impossible angle, fractured bone sticking through the collar of her new pink blouse, her eyes staring unseeingly into a deep-blue sky. Something forever had died in him that minute.

  In a swell of anger, he whirled, swinging the double-edged sword expertly at the teakwood lamp resting on the nightstand. It was slashed so cleanly and with such incredible precision that it took a few seconds for the top half to separate from the bottom. It tilted lazily, finally crashing to the carpet. He stared, trying to sort out the emotions that battered him like a hurricane.

  The horror of her funeral had been the final straw, and his soul and mind grew more hollow by the second as he purged every emotion but one.

  Walking away from the gravesite with the Illinois wind howling through the barren trees, he’d made a promise to his mother, himself, and to his beloved rainforest: the three most important things in his life.

  He smiled, turning the rapier over in his hand.

  If the government wouldn’t fix the problems in El Yunque, he would.

  Chapter-4

  The shorter thug reached Manny’s table, his gun never wavering as it seemed to stare intently into Manny’s face, its cold, dark, lifeless eye sizing him up.

  Manny glanced up to his would-be executioner and said nothing.

  “Did you hear me, white boy? Are you ready?” the man demanded.

  But Manny detected the nervousness in his voice. Not exactly a pro, but the steady hand told him his assailant knew what he was doing with a gun in his hand, and he was pissed. Nervous, pissed, and good with firearms wasn’t usually a good combination, any time.

  “I’m not,” he answered quietly.

  The man’s voice rose higher and his accent got heavier. “Well, tough shit, man. I’ve waited a long time for this, and now it’s your turn to pay.”

  “Pay for what?” Manny’s voice grew even softer.

  “For screwing up my life. You sons-a-bitchin’ cops think you got all the answers, but truth is, you don’t know shit from peanut butter.”

  His stout assailant stepped closer and whispered into Manny’s face. “And you ain’t even gonna know who I am.”

  Manny raised his eyebrows. “Actually, I do know who you are and why you’re here. Hello, Pete Contreras.”

  The short man took a step back, which was all that Manny needed. Grabbing Pete’s arm, Manny stood up and twisted it and, with his other hand, snatched the Smith and Wesson .38. He then wrapped his arm under Pete’s neck and pressed the gun to his head. The taller gunman, seeing what had happened to his partner, shuffled his feet, twisted his head to scope the room, then turned and ran through the door at breakneck speed.

  He ripped the ski mask from Pete’s face. “Unless I miss my guess,” said Manny, squeezing Pete’s throat for emphasis, “I think your brave-as-ever compadre was Slim Zimmerman. Right?”

  “I’m not telling you a freaking thing, and I don’t give a shit what you think. Prick,” Pete growled.

  “That wasn’t very nice. And you don’t smell so good either. Put those together with threatening to shoot an FBI special agent doesn’t bode well for you, asshole. But I’m going to tell you what I think anyway. I’m thinking you’re still as dumb as the first time I busted you for armed robbery.”

  “Get bent.”

  “And pistol whipping that old lady was a real nice touch, you piece of shit.”

  “That’ll teach the old bitch for getting in the way.”

  Manny pressed the gun to Pete’s head and heard him yelp. “So, by your logic, I should, at the very least, beat you with this gun, then maybe shoot your ugly ass, just because you screwed up my breakfast. Is that right?”

  “You ain’t gonna do shit, man. You’re too much of a pansy-ass do-gooder. You’re just full of bullshit.” Pete then jerked his head backward, trying to connect with Manny’s face, but he wasn’t fast enough. Manny shifted his head to the right, barely avoiding the blow.

  Lifting Pete off the floor, Manny slammed him face down on the tile, shattering his nose. The crunch was more than gratifying.

  “You broke my nose,” Pete screamed. “You broke my damned nose.”

  “Just your nose? Maybe I should try it again and see how many scars I can leave for your next twenty years in prison, just like the scars you gave that old lady.” Manny took out his cuffs and slapped them on Pete’s thick wrists.

  “I’m going to sue for police brutality,” sobbed Pete. “I’ll have your damned badge.”

  “Can’t wait to hear from your lawyer.”

  Just then, two LPD blues barged into the restaurant, guns pulled, followed by Gavin Crosby, Lansing’s police chief, and his son Mike, the LPD’s new sergeant det
ective.

  Manny stood. “Looks like your ride’s here. Have a nice trip.”

  “I’m gonna kill you, Williams, someday, your blonde ass will be mine,” threatened Pete, his voice growing more nasal with each word.

  “Maybe, but you’ll have to get smarter and faster, dipshit. And where you’re going, I wouldn’t bend over in the shower to pick up any soap.”

  The two blues lifted Pete from the floor, blood soaking the front of his coat, and hurried him out the door.

  Manny moved next to Gavin and Mike. “Who called?”

  “The cook,” answered Gavin. “These two are as smart as ever. We were on our way over to get something to eat, so—”

  “Did you get Zimmerman?”

  “Yep, about a block away. The dumbass was still wearing the mask and had the gun in his hand,” said Gavin.

  “I’m guessing those two won’t be taking over the world anytime soon,” grinned Manny. “Oh, and sorry about his nose. I’ll write it up and send you the report.”

  “No problem. But you do know how those reports can get lost . . .”

  “Yeah, I do. But we have witnesses, and I got a little rough.”

  Mike Crosby shook his head. “According to those witnesses, he tried to kill an officer, a damned Fed no less. We’re good to go.”

  The waitress, Tammy, who had served Manny’s last cup of coffee, walked up and touched his hand. “We didn’t see nothin’ bad. He tried to mess up that pretty face. Hell, he should be put away for life just for that. End of story.”

  He bent down and kissed Tammy on the forehead. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll leave a big tip.”

  Her face turned red, and she looked at the floor. “I’ve been waiting for that for years. Best tip ever.” Then she hurried off to the kitchen.

  Gavin rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, lover boy, we got some paperwork to do so we can get half of my damned department turned over to the Feds.”

  Manny looked at his old partner Gavin and then at Mike, and couldn’t help thinking, again, how they all belonged to the same fraternity; they’d all lost their wives. Mike’s wife Lexy died at the hands of the deranged serial killer, Dr. Fredrick Argyle, on a cruise ship two years ago, and Gavin’s wife Stella was shot by a wacked-out LPD employee, who was also responsible for killing his Louise. He felt their pain.