by Don Donovan
7
Silvana
Monday, June 27, 2011
10:55 AM
DETECTIVE SERGEANT SILVANA MACHADO got off the phone with ballistics. All of the victims from Friday night's Little Havana massacre were killed with the same gun, a .45 semi-auto. One heavy fucking round. Doesn't leave much behind after it strikes human flesh.
She assembled the data and began straightening up her desk. Uncurl the phone cord, first thing. Those damn things can get all twisty and messy in a hurry. Put the pens back in the beer stein slightly to the right of center, file the loose papers in their proper folders, and then arrange the folders themselves in a neat row, flat on the far left of her desk, each tab showing just above the previous one. That way, all the tabs were visible and the folders symmetrical, displayed alphabetically. She was in the final stages of her ritual, wiping a few specks of dust from the center of her desk, when the phone rang.
"Machado," Lieutenant Santos said. "You and Vargas get up here on the double."
"Yes, sir." She rose from her desk and moved across the aisle, where she tapped her partner Bobby Vargas on the shoulder. "Come on. Santos wants to see us."
Santos left his door open to expedite the start of this meeting. Silvana and Vargas stepped in on schedule.
They were some pair. Machado: thirty-one. Hard, stocky build for a woman, the result of lots of gym time. Born in Cuba, came here in '92. Mastered her English fast. Up from the streets and it showed on her mean face. Made sergeant last year. Vargas: twenty-eight. Solid body and big shoulders. Born in Miami to Cuban parents. Fifth year on the force. A hothead. The perfect team.
Santos flipped on the small fan resting on the file cabinet behind his desk and with a finicky touch, aimed it in his direction. He removed his suit jacket and carefully draped it over the back of his chair.
Silvana noticed his shirt, pale blue against his charcoal gray suit. The shirt was an extraordinary fit. She pegged it as custom-tailored. Pretty extravagant for a cop, she thought. Clothes, especially those of her supervisor, were not something that usually commanded her attention, but this shirt grabbed her. The graceful flow of the smooth material around Santos' torso and arms was so perfect, she thought the shirt could never possibly fit any other human being. The maroon-patterned silk tie looked pretty pricey, too.
Santos took his seat. The two cops remained standing.
He was a big man, tall and broad, with a powerful voice, and he often gestured with his hands when he spoke. His English was without accent, although growing up in Miami, Silvana knew he spoke only Spanish at home. He was known as a no-bullshit guy. He tells you to do something, you do it or you will regret it. Budding careers could be made or busted on his word.
He leaned back in his swivel chair and spread his hands. Silvana knew what was coming."You know why I called you in here. What've you got on the Little Havana triple homicide?" His smooth, even voice camouflaged his famous temper.
"Not much, sir." Silvana pushed a few strands of her limp brown hair away from closely-set eyes and pulled out her notebook for reference. "The two male victims were lowlifes. Edgardo Segura, aka "Chicho", DOB 5/27/72, and Andrés Borraga, DOB 10/23/73, both from Miami. The girl was Yanet Santiago, DOB 12/11/95, a teenager, also from Miami, and well on her way to becoming an adult lowlife. Marijuana in every room of the house, including the bathroom. All three were killed by a .45 semi-auto. No such weapon found. No prints on the shell casings. And there were plenty of them. All the blood belonged to the victims. There was a Remington 12-gauge pump handle near one of the male victims, Borraga. His prints all over it. He got two rounds off before he went down. Must've been a hell of a shootout."
"Yes, a hell of a shootout. Over forty-eight hours later and that's all you've got? 'A hell of a shootout'?" His voice rose a notch or two. "Any suspects? Witnesses?"
"No real suspects yet. We canvassed the neighborhood and found this guy — lives across the street — who saw two men leave the house some time before the gunplay. They were carrying a bag, or a suitcase, and getting into a beat-up orange Mustang from the eighties. They drove away."
"He's sure it was a Mustang?"
"Yes, sir. Said he used to sell Fords all through the nineties. He can spot them a mile away. This one was parked under the street light in front of his house."
"He's sure those two came out of the house before the incident?"
"Yes, sir. He's very sure." Silvana spoke clearly, almost in a military monotone. She stood ramrod-straight, her face hard as concrete and just as inscrutable. "Said the gunshots occurred sometime later, like maybe forty-five minutes. All the other neighbors confirm it. They say they heard the gunshots at about the same time. A little before four AM. Plus, the 911 calls reporting the gunfire were all made right around that time, within two minutes of each other."
Santos steepled his hands while Silvana assessed how this was going. The Lieutenant hadn't threatened to take their badges yet, so … so far, so good.
"Do we know who these two 'gentlemen' are?" he asked. From the dripping sarcasm, Silvana knew the outburst might be right around the corner.
"We ran the Mustang. Just now got the results. The only one like it registered within a ten mile radius belongs to one Yolexis Molina, Hispanic male, DOB —" She consulted her notebook. "— 8/8/91. I know him from around. He's a street punk, nothing more. We're gonna brace him this morning. Soon as we leave here."
Santos leaned back in his chair again, rather than forward. Despite his size, he had the look not of a cop, but of a successful corporate type of guy. Square-jawed, hair neatly styled, sort of good-looking. And when he leaned back like that, Silvana let out a tiny exhale of relief, because she knew he was buying into her answers. Just like a corporate guy at a board meeting who's hearing good numbers for the last quarter, not a raving lunatic who wants to cut your fucking tongue out before he fires you.
"See that you do," he said. "And don't come back without a suspect, you got that?"
"Lieutenant, what's the deal here?" Silvana asked. "These three — or the two men, anyway — were known slimebags with lengthy records. The jacket on Chicho Segura reads like America's Most Wanted. Robbery, ADW, aggravated battery — on and on. Did a total of two years in County, two bits in State. Numerous juvenile beefs. Nobody gives a shit if he's gone."
"I know, I know, and normally, I wouldn't give a shit, either. We'd be pushing ahead with more important crimes. But the female victim, turns out she was the niece of Bob Harvey's wife."
"Who's Bob Harvey?"
"Ha! You don't know him? You can be thankful for that. He's a Miami-Dade County Commissioner and his wife is Cuban. The fucker's a born troublemaker, and the Chief is feeling his heat. This guy swings weight on the Commission and throughout the county, and the newspapers are already playing up the girl as an innocent teenager killed in a drug shootout. So we've got to find the one who did this. And fast. You read me?"
"Yes, sir." Silvana stiffened her posture, chin up, eyes straight ahead.
"Now, I assigned this case to you and Vargas in the first place because you two get results. A lot better than most of our teams. I'm expecting no less in this case." Silvana thought he was through, but he said, "I ask you again. Do … you … read me, Sergeant?"
"Loud and clear, sir."
He turned to Vargas. "Detective Vargas? What about you?"
Vargas lifted himself up slightly on the balls of his feet, then back down again. "I read you, Lieutenant. Don't worry, we'll get him."
"I hope so. Now get out of here."
8
Silvana
Monday, June 27, 2011
11:40 AM
THE SUN HUNG HAZY AND HOT over the streets of Little Havana. Steam drifted upward from the baking pavement and people moved as though they carried fifty-pound weights strapped to their backs. Only the kids ran around not giving a shit, enjoying the early days of their summer vacation from school.
To make matters worse, the AC in Silvana Machado
's Chevy Malibu was only cooling at about half capacity, which was to say, virtually not at all. On top of that, the car was black, absorbing every last ray of sun and every last degree of radiating heat. Fucking motor pool guys told her they'd fixed it, told her it was working just fine. She was goddamned if she was ever going to hit the streets again in this hunk of tin.
"Fuck, man, I'm sweating like a fucking pig!" she said, unbuttoning her blouse's top button, looking for whatever small relief she could find. The sun stuffed her nostrils, packing unbearable heat up her nose and around her neck. She removed her aviators and wiped sweat from her eyes with her sleeve.
"I'm opening my window," Bobby Vargas said from the shotgun seat. "This AC ain't gettin' it." He pressed the control in his door and the window slid down. Hot air poured in.
Silvana turned onto Calle Ocho. "I've had it with this fucking car," she said. "I'm gonna get us another one when we get back."
"Why'd they give us this one, anyway?" Vargas asked. "It didn't work yesterday, either."
"Fucking Venuti in the motor pool, he said they took care of it. Said the AC worked perfect."
"That fat fuck. Stick this AC up his blubbery wop ass, see how he likes it."
"He actually looked me in the eye and told me it was fixed," Silvana said. "Told me it was fucking fixed! You believe that shit?"
She maneuvered around and through traffic on Calle Ocho, sweating and cursing Venuti and the AC unit all the while, finally turning onto Southwest 13th Avenue. Just before Third Street, she pulled up and parked in front of a driveway. They got out and approached a low-rent two-story apartment building, looking to hold about twelve units. In front of the building, Silvana noted an ancient Mustang from the eighties with faded orange paint, banged up in several spots. Brimming trash cans from all the apartments lined the curb. An obese woman sat on a plastic chair outside the door of one of the downstairs apartments, facing the other way. About a block and a half up the street, a couple of kids were playing. No one else in sight.
Silvana and Vargas moved up the steps and down the second floor landing. They stopped at the last door. Silvana hammered the door with the side of her thick fist, the cop thud. Within seconds it opened. The rawboned young man in the doorway held a beer in his hand and a lot of attitude on his face. He looked older than his listed age of nineteen. About five-ten, which put him a couple of inches taller than Silvana, and about the same height as Vargas. Right away, the kid went into a full-body, tough-guy slouch.
"What do you two want?" he asked, rolling his eyes. Silvana and Vargas shoved their way past him into the apartment without bothering to show their badges. His complaints trailed off behind them.
Silvana gave him a swift once-over glance. Look at this fucking punk, she thought. All attitude and no balls. This is what the streets are producing these days. A hotshot punk like this, he'd've been shut down before he turned sixteen back in my old neighborhood.
When they were inside, Silvana said, "Close the door, Yolexis."
Yolexis did as he was told. All three remained standing. Silvana realized the air conditioning in here was working. She liked it. A lot of sunlight poured in through the window, so she left her aviators on.
"What do you guys want?" Yolexis repeated. "I ain' done nothin'." He swigged from his beer while his eyes darted uneasily between the two cops. Silvana moved closer to him, within inches of his thin, young face. She smelled the younger man's body odor making its way out of his dirty polo shirt.
"You ain't done nothin'?" Silvana said, mocking his voice through a sneer. She slapped the beer bottle out of his hand and sent it crashing against the wall. Beer flowed across the floor and settled against a throw rug, pooling down its edge. "Underage drinking," she said. "Gives us probable cause. We look around, no telling what we might find around this shithole. Drugs? Maybe a firearm or two? Probably enough to send you up. And not juvie, either."
The kid lost a little of the tough-guy shit, but only a little. "Awright, awright. What do you want?"
"We want to know what you and another guy were doing at Chicho Segura's house the other night. Friday night, to be exact. Late Friday night."
"I — I don't know what you're talkin' about."
Silvana pushed him hard against the wall. A crucifix hanging just above him fell off its hook from the impact, glanced off his head, and broke on the floor into three pieces.
"We're talking about why you were at Chicho Segura's house late Friday night right before he and two other people got blown away." Her lips pulled back against her teeth as she spoke, keeping her snarl even but threatening.
"Man, I didn't have nothin' to do with that. You got nothin' on m —"
Vargas moved in and landed a hard right to the kid's stomach. It scored. His legs gave and he hit the floor. "What were you doin' there?" he said, not controlling his voice as Silvana had done. "Tell us, motherfucker!" Spittle flew from his mouth down into the kid's hair as he tried to stand, unable to breathe.
Silvana pulled him up by his shirt. "Don't fuck with us, Yolexis. We know you were there."
Yolexis tried again for a breath but couldn't find one. A little sweat formed around his hairline. After a few seconds, he managed to gasp, "Why you think I was there?"
Silvana jerked off her shades and pulled her piece. Shoving the barrel into the kid's mouth, she said, "A little bird told me, asshole. He said he saw two of you leaving the house carrying a bag, some kind of bag or something, and driving away. About quarter past three. This little bird even identified your piece of shit orange car. Forty-five minutes later, Chicho and his friends went out in a blizzard of bullets that echoed all over the neighborhood. Now … do you fill in the blanks or do I blow the back of your fucking head off?"
The kid's eyes widened. Sweat flowed into his eyes and down his brown cheeks, like tears. Silvana's vicious eyes, aflame inside her tight, plain face, promised a messy death. He gave a frantic nod. She yanked the nine out of his mouth. "Let's have it," she said.
"I — I was — I was pickin' up a package for a friend."
Vargas landed another solid hit to the body. Down he went.
"Talk straight to us, man!" Vargas said. "Not in fucking riddles. What was in the package? Who's your friend?" He reached for the kid's shirt and cocked his big fist again. Silvana stepped between them.
"Come on, Lexi. Better give us details, plenty of details, or I let him go to work on you."
This time, it took a little longer for Yolexis to gain control of himself. Silvana heard piss running to the floor. She looked down to see a widening stain on the kid's pants. After a minute, Yolexis struggled to his feet.
"Maxie Méndez," he said. "Th — that's who I was there for."
Silvana tilted her head a little. "Maxie Méndez? What?"
"Y-yeah. That's right."
"The fuck is your connection to him?"
"I run errands for him. Make pickups, deliveries … that kind of thing."
Vargas said, "Who was with you?"
"My homie. Flaco. I had him for backup."
Silvana had to chuckle. Backup. Hmph. As if backup would ever do this motherfucker any good.
She said, "And what were you two tigres delivering to him Friday night?"
Yolexis finally caught his full breath back. "Money," he said. "A shitload of money."
≈ ≈ ≈
Silvana holstered her weapon, then led Yolexis to the sofa and sat him down. Vargas took the seat on the other side of him. Sitting between the two cops, Yolexis swiveled his head several times, like he was not sure what to expect. His bravado and the sneer and all the rest of it was long gone. Silvana draped an arm around his shoulder and softened her own presence.
"Now, Lexi, you're tellin' us that you and this other guy, this, uh … this … cómo se llama …"
"Flaco," the kid said.
"Yeah. Flaco." Silvana's voice was all velvet. "You're sayin' you and Flaco went to Chicho Segura's house over on Northwest Tenth Avenue. You went there to pic
k up money for Maxie Méndez? A 'shitload of money', I think was how you put it?"
"That's right," Yolexis said, his head still swiveling from one cop to the other. "We picked up a lot of money. In a gym bag."
"And you brought it to Hialeah. To Maxie."
"Y-yeah. That's what we did."
"Did you know Chicho? Or Andrés Borraga? Or the girl?"
"I knew Chicho from around. Not real good, though. The other guy, I never seen before. The bitch, I think I seen her with Chicho a time or two."
"What was Maxie's connection to this whole thing?"
A twitch attacked Yolexis's mouth and he trembled. "I don't think I wanna talk to you guys anymore. I want a lawyer." He started to get up from the couch.
Vargas pulled him back down. Hard. "Sit down, shithead! You're not gettin' a lawyer."
Silvana patted Yolexis on the shoulder. "What Bobby means is, you're not under arrest. We're not here to bust you. Not for anything. So … no bust, no lawyer. Understand?" Her voice was still firmly in patience mode. Yolexis gave a half-nod, still nervous as shit. "Okay," Silvana said. "So tell us, what's Maxie's connection to all this? Did he have those three lit up? Like maybe he sent someone in after you left?"
"I still don't think I should talk no more."
Silvana picked at a nonexistent piece of lint on the kid's dirty shirt, then smoothed it out. It still looked like shit. "Now, kid, we don't want to get rough with you again. You will talk to us. Or I turn you over to Bobby here. He's a lot less patient than I am. So make it easy on yourself. Just spill it. Did Maxie have those three smoked?"
"No, no, no!" cried Yolexis. "Maxie didn't do it! He just wanted his money. And he got it."
"His money? What do you mean?"
"Chicho, he was into Maxie for a lotta money. Sports bets, shy loans, all kinda shit. Maxie carried him for a while, then he said Chicho's time was up. Said he's gonna put the hurt on him if he don't pay up."