“I don’t want a damned soul to know about my history,” Serena said at the end. “Now I’ve helped you with these details, but I don’t know what use they are to you. Those monsters back in Del Rio didn’t have anything to do with the murder of Donnie Hines. And you’ll never catch them. It was so long ago. They’re long gone, maybe dead by now. I should know; I’ve gone back.”
“Did you go looking for them?”
“Yes. I even learned to shoot. I brought a gun with me! I don’t know what I would have done if I’d come across those pieces of shit. But I found nothing, the place where it happened had been demolished, a Taco Bell built in its place. I found nothing. Except my poor, half-literate cousin, who was still worth saving. You probably think I’m terrible for keeping her as a maid, but right now, that’s what she can do. It’s like she has to repeat her whole education over again, you know? Because the first time, she learned nothing in those barrio schools.”
There was a pause as Alvarez let that sink in.
Cat took the opportunity to ask what she’d been wondering the whole time.
“How did you escape from Del Rio?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mick spent an entire afternoon down at the Miami police station torturing himself with images of Serena Jones. She was a media darling, a real personality who’d been photographed in public throughout South Florida, at marketing events for her La Luz line of beauty products, at fundraisers and galas, and by paparazzi catching her out at the clubs with celebrities and other members of her nouveau-riche set. He saw now what he would never have been able to see before: the resemblance she bore to the redheaded girl in his painting.
He had to mentally alter her chin, nose, and eye color, but he could see it now. He wished he’d been able to see it before.
It made him wish he’d killed Pennington James. To think the photos that poor excuse for a human being had locked up in his safe were Serena as a young girl living through some unimaginable horror. At least he’d made it so that Pennington would never hear out of his left ear again. That was something. And the man’s defense attorney had advised him not to press charges on Mick for it, as no jury in South Florida would likely convict Mick for what he’d done.
But there was no redheaded girl to save, because she’d already saved herself.
Mick was okay with that.
The thing was, after all the pain and suffering, he still didn’t really know who killed Donnie.
Cat and Pris were looking into something having to do with Ernesto, and now the Feds were involved as well. Cat tried to explain to Mick about something called the “darknet,” and listening to her talk about it made him feel really old and out of touch. His grandniece had cozied up to the FBI agent from the Miami field office, and the two of them had geeked out on each other over the technology behind it all. Mick glazed over when they started flinging acronyms around. He didn’t know his FTP from his PSP. At least he had FBI down.
He watched Pris making a valiant effort to ride the crest of things as well, and while she certainly fared better than he did and held her own in conversations with Cat and the others, he sensed she might be feeling her age, too, especially since she had a decade on her li’l brother.
Mick was glad they kept him around. He had to admit he liked using the computers the FBI brought in, as they were a dozen times faster than his own. Alvarez thought the FBI would come in and kick everybody out who wasn’t official, but on the contrary, the agent leading the charge said he liked to have “all hands on deck.”
Roger Strickland claimed to be a synesthetic, which, he explained to Mick, meant that the wires between his senses often got crossed. “The number five is red,” he announced, by way of example. “But three is green.”
Pris took to him, and Cat really bonded with him. They were, surprisingly, closer in age, as Strickland was some kind of boy genius who’d graduated from Quantico at twenty. Mick could sense that Cat saw in Strickland someone she could learn from.
But it was Cat, and not the boy genius, who came up with the prevailing theory they were now in a tizzy to prove, and that was that Kristoff Langholm was the biggest, baddest, child porn-distributing motherfucker that had ever lived.
Kristoff. Fucking. Langholm.
As Mick understood it, Cat first began thinking in that direction when her grandmother sensed that Ernesto lied about handling art transactions for the Langholms. Grace’s hunch was correct; the FBI found evidence that Ernesto handled quite a few art transactions for them in a highly unregulated market, many of them now appearing questionable from a tax standpoint. After that, it was Serena Jones who became the linchpin in the case. And that damned tenacious woman didn’t even know what kind of monster he was, or might be, if Cat’s theory was correct. Serena thought of Kristoff and his wife Carrie as surrogate parents.
Mick heard the recording from Serena’s interrogation, which wasn’t on “tape,” anymore, he noted, but on computer. He could see Serena’s voice on the audio meter bob up and down as she talked. Strickland had him listen to it in case it triggered anything he’d forgotten to add, any details about Langholm. Mick liked that about Strickland, that he thought every detail could be relevant to the case. It reminded Mick of the way he used to paint, his chance operations, where any drip or smudge could become a new pattern or way of movement for his brush. Nothing was insignificant.
On the audio recording, Cat asked Serena how she’d escaped from Del Rio, and that was a curious story.
“There was this businessman who would come to town,” Serena said. “He was so…cultured. Not like the thugs we knew. He was buying old buildings, pretty ones with fancy columns, beautiful old tiles, even chandeliers that were busted and forgotten. This man saw the beauty in them. He bought them from the owners and restored them.”
“That was Kristoff Langholm, wasn’t it?” Cat said.
“Yes. He’d be in town for long periods of time, sometimes with his wife, Carrie. I got to know them because I worked at the hotel, cleaning rooms. I was trying to escape, you see. I’d left my parents’ house and was sleeping in the hotel, in the back with the other maids.”
“The Langholms helped you?”
“Yes. They took an interest because I offered to help them first. I wasn’t stupid, you know. I knew everyone wanted charity from them and that I would have to prove my value to get their help. So I showed them where the best buildings were. I’d been in them, as a kid growing up. I knew which ones were dangerous because their foundations were unstable. I knew which ones had fixtures and tin ceilings and those old-fashioned architectural features the Langholms were looking for.”
“After that, we helped each other every time they were in town. I told them more, too, details about the people who owned them, which ones were involved in drugs, and which ones were just down on their luck. And they paid me money that I used to buy books, or clothes. I used it to further myself, and they took an interest in me.”
“So they sort of adopted you?” Alvarez asked.
“No, not like that. More like, they took an interest. I’ve never lived with them. There’s no charity here. They paid me for my services, and I made my own way in life.”
“How did you come to be neighbors on Star Island?”
“When I graduated from business school, I asked them if they would introduce me into the Miami community. I had my plan already in the works. They encouraged me to create a new identity as a Cuban American, and I did. I launched La Luz. After a number of years of hard work, it really took off. It became bigger and bigger. The Langholms had this place on Star Island, I think it used to be a mother-in-law dwelling, actually, and they sold it to me well below market.”
“They didn’t try to out you or hold that over your head?”
“No! The Langholms have always been decent. Nobody knew about me till these two ladies showed up on Star Island with their research.”
Mick noted that Serena said the word “research” as if she were saying “coc
kroach.”
It was from this revelation that Cat came up with her theory that Langholm bought and sold child porn.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” she explained to Strickland, who resisted her idea at first. “Langholm was there when the photos of Serena were first made. He probably bought them. Maybe that’s what he really does all over the country, buys and sells pedophilic material.”
Strickland warmed to the theory. “Sure, sure. He’s the clean one. He doesn’t actually take the pics. He buys them from those who do, and then he redistributes them, making a mint.”
At this point, Mick raised what he thought was the obvious objection. “But why show kindness to Angie Ramirez? Wouldn’t that be risky?”
It was his sister who picked up the thread at that point.
“Angie’s right that she had value,” said Pris. “She gave the Langholms information, and she knew to charge for it. Maybe they admired her, saw her potential. But that didn’t mean they’d destroy the images of her they’d paid for. Perhaps the Langholms are only motivated by money.”
“Or maybe even they needed a child of sorts,” said Strickland, staring up at the board. “Someone to love.”
“How could a couple like that be capable of love?” asked Mick. “What we’re saying here is that they killed Donnie.”
“Did they see the painting of Angie Ramirez?” Strickland asked.
Mick thought about Kristoff’s visits to his studio. There were two in the month preceding the fire, and Greta had retrieved the Three Views, One Girl triptych out of his seldom-seen back archive of paintings during her visit, and he agreed to send them to her gallery for the show. They were probably sitting out the second time that Kristoff came by.
And, come to think of it, when Serena Jones bought Mick’s work after the party, Kristoff had insisted he bring a few pieces to her house on Star Island rather than having Serena visit Mick’s studio. Maybe Kristoff didn’t want to risk that she would see the paintings and recognize herself in them.
“Yes,” said Mick. He told them how it was.
They broke for lunch, and Mick found himself in a conference room alone with Strickland, the two of them eating sandwiches.
“I sure do like what the Cubans have done to luncheon,” said Strickland, who held out his sandwich in front of him, admiring the several layers of meat and pickles pressed between thin slices of toast.
Mick wolfed down his own pork concoction and had to agree. “Of course, it pales in comparison to what they’ve done with coffee,” he said.
“Right-o.” Strickland winked as he picked up a Styrofoam cup holding a café con leche and took a sip. Then, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin, he stared up above Mick’s head at the wall behind, but it seemed as if he stared at something in his mind’s eye. “The aboriginal cultures of Australia believe in something called Dreamtime. It’s hard to describe this in English, as there are no words for it. It’s not the past, exactly, but they do believe that the spirits of their ancestors are passed to them. It’s not the same as dreaming…” He peered at Mick pointedly. “But it does call into question what we think of dreams.”
Mick’s back went up. He wasn’t sure how to take this line of discussion.
Strickland continued. “It would be beyond a purely secular man like Langholm to imagine something like Dreamtime, don’t you think?”
Mick nodded, unsure what to say. He sipped his coffee.
“He wouldn’t have been able to account for your dream, for instance.”
“No, he must not have.”
“Curious thing, your dream, Mick. I’ve been considering it in the back of my mind as Cat sold me on her suspicions against Langholm. Dreams in our culture are entirely frivolous, for the most part. But I believe—and I’m in part doing some guesswork here, as I am outside aboriginal culture and can only form a hypothesis in a distant sort of way about them—but I believe they would not separate your dream that night from Dreamtime. They would think of it as part and parcel of the ancestor experience.”
“That’s pretty deep,” Mick said.
Strickland chuckled. “Oh, forgive my academic obtuseness. Your grandniece is a smart cookie, Mick. I’d love to steal her away to the FBI. But I sense she belongs with you and your sister. Something binds the three of you—I can see that clearly—and I think it has something to do with your dream.”
Mick nearly choked on his cortadita. “Excuse me?”
“That dream you had at Langholm’s, Mick—I don’t doubt that you had it. But Cat, she exhibits an odd conviction about it. And for one so data-driven as she is? It got me thinking about dreams and how little we really know about them. They are the most powerful imaginative experience a human being can have. And everyone dreams.”
With that, Strickland polished off his pressed sandwich, swept the wrappings into a trash bin, and exited.
Mick sat for a moment, stunned that another person had an inkling about his family’s dreamslipping ability. He was glad that Strickland was on their side.
Mick rejoined the others back in the briefing room. Strickland was standing in front of an evidence board with the players and their connections marked. “We have one mission here, folks. Catch Langholm. But how do we do it?”
“Ernesto’s the key,” said Pris. Mick felt for her, having her companion mixed up in this awful mess.
“Let’s bring him in,” said Strickland. “In the meantime”—he looked at his technical team—“keep monitoring the chats like you have.”
“What does he mean by chats?” Mick asked Cat. “Is that like the chatting you do online?”
Cat was happy to explain. “We think Kristoff uses this particular chat alias, and if we can connect it to an upload link for hidden pedophilic services, we’ve got him.”
“Oh,” said Mick, but he didn’t really get it.
When they brought Ernesto in, Mick caught his eye and gave him a hard look. Pris looked upset but determined, her mouth set in a flat line. Mick squeezed her hand.
“You don’t have to join in the questioning,” he told her.
“I know,” she said. “But I’ll wonder if I don’t.”
With that, she slipped into the room. Mick followed, and so did Cat. Mick expected Strickland to protest, but he was solicitous.
“Come in, come in,” he said to them. “Have a seat. Make sure you’re sitting where you’re most comfortable. I like to sit far from any air conditioning ducts myself.” Mick almost laughed out loud at his quirky manner.
“Grace, darling,” Ernesto said. “What is this?”
“I think you know,” said Pris, who’d chosen to sit directly across from Ernesto. “That’s why you’ve been following the case so closely.”
Ernesto looked at her blankly. Mick wanted to punch his lights out.
“You’re involved in this, aren’t you? Through Langholm’s art. Which you do handle, as it turns out.”
Ernesto didn’t miss a beat. “Grace, you must forgive my secrecy. But my clients always…expect the strictest confidence. But involved in this? Mick’s case? I should think you would know me better than that.”
“I thought so, too, Ernie. But you’re in this. I know it.”
Ernesto glanced at Mick. “I am very sorry for the misunderstanding over your brother’s…predilections, as it were. But I do not see how that has anything to do with my business.”
“My predilections? You asshole—” Mick couldn’t control himself. He was seeing red again.
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. It is not a matter to easily discuss, you see.”
“You can’t discuss child porn, but you can do business with those who sell it?” Pris challenged him.
Ernesto sputtered. “Eh…how do you mean?”
Grace leaned across the table. “Your client. Kristoff Langholm. Do you look the other way, Ernesto? Is that it? His transactions are fishy, his need for anonymity suspicious. And you look the other way.”
“I-I don’t
know what you’re talking about.”
“How much money do you make off Langholm, annually?”
“Off the top of my head, I am not sure. I would have to look at my records.”
At that, Strickland broke in. “Records! Fantastic. I love good recordkeepers. Why don’t you give us access to those records, Mr. Ruíz? The federal government insists, as a matter of fact. Here, my staff will escort you back to your office for the confiscation. But that’s just what you’ve got in your own possession. We’ve already been in contact with the relevant banks, savings and loans, brokerage houses, credit cards, the IRS, you name it.”
“Wait,” Ernesto said. “I would like a lawyer.”
“Certainly!” said Strickland. “I’m surprised one isn’t already in the room with us, Mr. Ruíz. After all, a person’s rights must be protected. But you probably thought this was going to be a friendlier conversation, didn’t you? I mean, Ms. Grace here has been quite her namesake with you up till now, hasn’t she? Gracious, if you haven’t gathered my meaning.”
Ernesto looked around the room, and to Mick he resembled a mouse, cornered by a cat and trying to find a mouse hole. Mick chuckled to himself, realizing that Ernesto had been cornered by a Cat, in a matter of speaking.
“I wish to say something,” Ernesto declared.
“Wonderful,” said Strickland, but with a softer tone. “Speaking is one of the greatest of God’s gifts. It allows the truth to come out, connections to be made.”
“You have to believe me, I don’t know anything about the fire, or whether or not Kristoff was involved. And up until this mess with Mick Travers and the illicit material, I did not know there was any connection to that kind of illegal activity.”
“Do go on,” said Strickland. He picked up his pen and had it poised over a yellow legal pad.
“The Langholms—and I do mean both of them, and not just Kristoff, but Carrie as well—they have been my clients for a number of years.”
Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2) Page 27