by Sam Hawken
“Okay. See you!”
Faith was quick to secure the door. She brought the package into the dining area and set it on the table. The label was handwritten, her name and address perfectly printed with a black Sharpie. The lettering made her skin crawl.
Her fingerprints were all over it now. And Andrea’s would be, too. And the postman’s, and those of each one of a hundred other people who had handled her package from the sender to her doorstep. None of the prints would belong to him. She knew this without even having to ask, because he would never allow a single print to be left behind.
She found a knife in a drawer in the kitchen. She cut the tape on the package. There was balled brown paper inside for padding. Once she cleared it away, she saw the glass globe.
It was a snow globe the size of a softball, and it was not cheap. The wooden base was polished, with a brass plaque reading MIAMI, FLORIDA. Inside the globe, a thick layer of fake snow stirred around the foundations of a string of pastel-colored beach hotels.
On the walls of the dining area she had framed photographs of the same buildings. She had a print in her living room that she had bought at the Art Deco Historic District in South Beach. Looking at the little buildings now, she felt colder than she had before, as if the snow were all around her.
She took the snow globe to the kitchen trash and threw it away. Afterward she threw away all the packaging. She stood over the trash can and wrapped her arms around herself and held on until the tears came. She cried for a long time alone in the kitchen with no one to hear.
Chapter Five
CAMARO WAS AWAY on a charter all day. When the customers paid the balance on their bill, they left Camaro alone to hose down the decks and polish the wood and fixtures on the fifty-nine-foot custom Carolina she called the Annabel. It was a meditative activity, requiring no more conscious thought than breathing. Seagulls swirled around the pier, knowing she would cast off unused bait, and when she did they dove into the water to catch their prizes before they were lost.
She went into the galley and found a bottle of beer in the refrigerator. She opened it and drank her first alcohol of the day. Sitting in the fighting chair outside, she listened to the lazy activity of the marina: skippers shouting at dock boys and mates and the lick of water against hulls all around. Camaro pulled the brim of a sun-bleached Seahawks cap low over her eyes and looked out toward the marina office and the parking lot in time to see Ignacio Montellano lumbering her way.
“Oh, what the hell?” Camaro said under her breath.
He saw her watching, raised his hat and waved. He was in short sleeves, but still wore a tie. His service weapon was prominent on his hip, a compact Smith & Wesson automatic with a stainless steel frame. The holster was well worn. “Hey, nice to see you,” Ignacio said when he came near.
“How did you know I’d be here?”
“Oh, educated guess. May I come aboard?”
Camaro gestured vaguely with her bottle.
Ignacio clambered onto the boat. He put his hands on his hips, his right resting against the automatic, and surveyed the vessel. His eyes were hidden by sunglasses with old-fashioned frames. “Have I ever told you what a nice boat you have?”
“You may have mentioned it.”
“How much does a boat like this run?”
Camaro shrugged. “Depends.”
“Ballpark,” Ignacio said.
“I paid a little shy of five hundred.”
Ignacio swept off his sunglasses. “Five hundred. Five hundred thousand?”
“Around that.”
The detective whistled. “No wonder it’s so nice. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have something to drink, would you? Water is fine.”
“Check the galley. Should be some bottles in the fridge.”
Camaro didn’t watch Ignacio go. She heard him inside the cabin, the slide and thunk of the door opening to let him out. The sun’s rays slanted across the desk, partly blocked by the flybridge, painting shadows on the wood.
“That hits the spot,” Ignacio said. He moved into her peripheral vision within the shade of the flybridge but still far enough to one side that Camaro was forced to turn her head to look at him. He leaned against the railing, a bottle of spring water sweating in his hand. Camaro’s beer was almost empty. She drank the last.
“I don’t remember calling the cops.”
“No need. We’re always around. Besides, I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“Fine.”
“Hit the bars lately?”
“There some law against that?”
“No, but I recall you getting into a little trouble a few weeks back.”
“Everybody gets into trouble sometimes.”
“Not your kind of trouble. Besides, it’s a good thing to have a cop watching over you. Helps when things come up.”
“So you said.”
“Sure, sure. And I hear things.”
“Like what?”
“Like I heard you took a trip to California around the New Year. How’d that work out for you?”
Camaro kept her face neutral. “It was fine. You keeping tabs on California, too?”
“Only on special occasions. You never know what you’re going to find out. Such as you have a sister.”
“I would have told you if you asked.”
“Would you, though?”
“Maybe not.”
“You named your boat after her.”
“Yeah. So what?” Camaro returned. “Don’t you have anything better to do? You have a wife? A girlfriend? Go spend time with her.”
Ignacio looked thoughtful. He pulled from his bottle. “Yesterday was my birthday.”
“Congratulations.”
“My girlfriend, she broke up with me the day before because she didn’t want to ruin things for me. I mean, I’m fifty-four, so it’s not like a special birthday the way fifty-five is special. But I thought it was awfully nice of her. I had to cancel our dinner reservations, but it gave me time to catch up on paperwork.”
“And now you’re here.”
“Now I’m here. So I don’t have anything better to do with my time. I work and I read reports and I hear things which remind me, you know, Camaro Espinoza is still out there. I figure I’m doing myself a favor by staying aware before the next body comes across my desk.”
Camaro shook her head. A seagull grazed the mast of a sailboat two slips over, hovering on the coursing breeze before setting down as lightly as a breath. “I’m not killing anybody today, so you can relax.”
“You know, I thought maybe you weren’t coming back to Miami after what went down in California. I did some asking around and they said you were spending your time in Virginia. Nice up there?”
“Depends on the place.”
“Whereabouts were you staying?”
“Norfolk.”
“Norfolk. Got a lot of ships there, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I never did much take to the water. Which is funny, because I was born on an island, but I don’t like water I can’t stand up in. Makes me nervous. Though that’s one thing that’s good when you’re fat: you float like a bar of soap.”
He laughed and Camaro smiled a little though she didn’t want to. She let the silence grow between them until she said, “I guess you’re going to keep coming around no matter what.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Then you might as well take me to dinner.”
Chapter Six
IGNACIO LED HER away from the water, into the city to Hialeah. Camaro tailed his Ford on the back of her bike, signaling with her hand when they made turns, keeping a steady two car lengths back. Ignacio crawled, obeying whatever the speed limit signs said, though traffic careened around them as fast as it wanted to go. She found herself cursing him silently by the time they reached a sandy-colored strip mall on Palm Avenue and pulled into the small parking lot.
The restaurant was called Casa Berganza, and it looked like nothing from
the outside. It was early evening, and the tables were occupied by a scattering of old-timers, dark-skinned Cubans burned leathery by long years in the sun. A domino game went on at one table, the ancient participants each looking a hundred years old. A round woman with streaks of gray in her hair found Camaro and Ignacio a booth near the front window where they could watch cars go by.
“I know it’s a hole in the wall, but they have a medianoche here that’s out of this world,” Ignacio told Camaro.
A waiter who spoke no English came to them. Ignacio ordered waters and salads in Spanish. Camaro sat watching them. When the waiter left, she kept her eye on him all the way to the kitchen.
“I don’t think he’s a problem,” Ignacio said.
“That’s what everybody says before there’s a problem.”
Ignacio set aside his straw trilby and scratched the back of his neck. “That’s the thing I wondered the most about you the first time we crossed paths. You don’t trust people. How’d that happen?”
Camaro looked him in the face. “You’re a cop. People lie to you all day long. You see murderers and rapists and every other kind of scumbag in the city. You telling me you believe everything you hear? Everything you see?”
“I try to keep some perspective.”
“Okay.”
The waiter brought their waters. Camaro squeezed a lemon into hers, pushed the crushed slice down to the bottom of the glass with her straw. Ignacio watched her and did the same. “In my line of work you see a lot of bad guys,” he said, “but all that bad helps you see good a little bit better. It sticks out. Kind of like finding a diamond in the dirt, you know?”
“I don’t know.”
“So you don’t get tired of being suspicious all the time?”
“Sure,” Camaro said. “That’s why I drink.”
Ignacio smiled and wagged a finger at her. “Okay, I’ll give you a point there. Sometimes you have to unwind. Me, I get a nice Cuban sandwich in front of me and it’s like all my troubles disappear. The first thing I did when my girlfriend told me she was leaving, I went out and had the biggest mixto I could find. Extra everything. All that flavor…”
“All that salt,” Camaro said.
“You aren’t exactly doing your body any favors with the booze you’re drinking.”
“I work it off.”
Ignacio touched his belly. “I don’t.”
The salads came. Camaro ate hers without dressing. Ignacio smothered his. The tomatoes were sweet and crisp, the lettuce fresh. Camaro picked out the onions. “You ever think about getting in shape?” she asked him after a while.
“Used to. But I figure at my age this is about as good as it’s gonna get. So I live with it. My blood pressure’s okay, and I don’t have diabetes, so I’m set. You never heard the expression ‘fat and happy’?”
“I’ve heard it.”
“You’ve probably never been fat a day in your life.”
“No,” Camaro said.
“Not even when you were little?”
“Not even then.”
“How about your sister? Your mother? Hey, maybe you have a nice, round abuela out there somewhere.”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Lucky genes, then,” Ignacio said, and he wiped his lips with his napkin. “My family, we’re all a healthy weight.”
“This is healthy?” Camaro asked.
“Sure. I’m light on my feet for a big man.”
Something tugged at the corner of Camaro’s mouth. She shook her head. “Whatever gets you through the day.”
They didn’t talk for a few minutes. The quiet was only interrupted by happy exclamations from the domino game. The waiter returned to take their orders. Ignacio asked for the medianoche, and also for the churrasco. “It’s Cuban-style,” he told Camaro. The waiter went away.
“You’re not Cuban, are you?” Ignacio asked her.
“Nope. My father was a Chicano from East LA, and my mother was from Canada.”
“Latina?”
“White lady.”
“That explains a little bit.”
“Why I’m not as brown as girls down on the farm?”
“What farm? I’m talking more like Jenny from the block. My folks are Puerto Rican. I was born in Ponce, where my mom’s from, but we moved to the Bronx pretty early on. You ever been?”
“To Puerto Rico, or the Bronx?”
“Either.”
“Neither.”
Ignacio made a vague gesture with his hands. “They’re nice if you’re from there. Long way from Miami, anyway. I wouldn’t even be here if a good spot hadn’t opened up, but I’m glad I came. Been here twenty-five years. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. It’s a great city.”
Camaro nodded but said nothing. She looked out the window at the deepening shadows. In a couple of hours the sun would be down, and the city would glitter, spread out on a flat plain of wetlands like a fisherman’s net set with stars.
The food came. The pressed sandwich Ignacio had ordered was perfectly browned, with diagonal stripes of darker bread where the flavor lurked. He tucked his napkin into his collar and parted the sandwich where it had been cut, an unconscious sound of delight escaping him. Camaro’s plate was set before her: spiced beef served with plantain chips and rice. A floret of red pepper sat atop the meat, a splash of brilliant color.
She watched Ignacio eat with the reverence of a man at worship. She carved into her own meal, and the flavors balanced on her taste buds. The warmth of the meat soaked up spice and released it in an aromatic cloud. She ate more quickly than she intended.
“Places like this are where the real food of Miami is,” Ignacio said after he’d demolished half the sandwich. “The tourists? They’ll never know. Though I gotta be fair: there are some places in Little Havana that deliver the goods.”
Camaro didn’t reply. She ate in silence, aware of Ignacio watching her. The sense that she should leave the table, and then the restaurant, grew.
When the churrasco was all gone, Camaro gave Ignacio her full attention. “Is this you trying to be my friend?” she asked.
Ignacio tucked away the last of his sandwich. He chewed thoughtfully, then sipped from his straw. “You got me.”
“I try not to make it a habit. Being friends with cops.”
“Who’s making it a habit? This is just us.”
“And I’m not going to sleep with you. I don’t care if your girlfriend left you.”
“Whoa, lady, I didn’t even ask. I’m too old for you anyway.”
Camaro let the frown slip from her mouth. “You’re not that old.”
“Thank you for saying so.”
“If you think I’m going to tell you everything there is to know about me, it’s not going to happen, either,” Camaro said.
“Your secrets are your secrets. I don’t pry.”
“Sure you do.”
“Okay, maybe a little. I ask questions for a living.”
“And there’s something else,” Camaro said, and she fixed him with a pointed finger.
“What?”
“I don’t want you pulling strings for me. If I get into trouble, that’s my business. I don’t want to owe you anything. What you did for me before…I don’t want it.”
Ignacio took a thoughtful drink. “Okay, then. The next time you get caught riding drunk, I’ll let them throw the book at you. But do you still want me to let them get you when you cross the line?”
“Which line?”
“You know the one I mean.”
Camaro thought. “We’ll talk about it when the time comes.”
“Let’s.”
The waiter returned with the check. Ignacio reached for it. Camaro snatched it away. She checked the bottom line, brought out her wallet to pay. She paid in wrinkled bills, and added 20 percent for a tip. She noticed Ignacio watching her again. “What?”
“I noticed you don’t carry a purse.”
“Wow, you are a detective.”
; “No, I mean…you know.”
“I don’t need a purse, so I don’t carry one,” Camaro replied. “Besides, what would I put in it? Lipstick and throwing knives?”
Ignacio laughed. “That would be pretty silly, wouldn’t it?”
Camaro put her wallet away. “I do what I want. You don’t have to know anything else about me. I do what I want. I don’t let people tell me who I have to be.”
“You are something, that’s for sure,” Ignacio said.
“I need to go home. Thanks for dinner.”
“You paid.”
“Oh, yeah. I did.”
Chapter Seven
HE LIKED TO watch Faith come and go. At first he thought he’d grow tired of the game, but after he’d done it for a while he realized he couldn’t wait for the new day to start so he could be there when she woke up. He followed her all day long, and while she worked in the tall building downtown he snoozed sitting up behind dark glasses and no one ever knew the difference.
It had been enough to stay clear of her and watch from a distance at first, but eventually he found he couldn’t help but get closer. That was when he started to leave the car and trail her into stores where she shopped, or sometimes into the building where she worked these days. He was always careful to veer away from cameras, and when this was impossible he wore a cap and big sunglasses to obscure his face. He looked down at the floor as he passed under the lens. There was nothing anyone could use to identify him.
The first time he saw Faith, she was eating her lunch on a bench outside the Pacific National Building, a stone’s throw from the Metromover station in Brickell. He remembered the moment clearly, because she had her legs crossed and the smooth skin was exposed to the knee under a professional skirt he still felt was a little too short. There was nothing particularly beautiful about her, but it was an instant of connection.
He liked the way she wasn’t tight or tanned or brilliantly blonde. Miami was full of such women. But she wasn’t dark with Caribbean promises either. She was different. Special. It wasn’t something he discussed with anyone, but he heard the occasional comment and he knew other men considered her plain, or at the very least not the model-quality lovely the unrealistic demanded. She had a too-broad mouth and an oddly quirky smile, and her hair never seemed to want to behave in the Florida humidity. He spent a very long time appreciating the modest swell of her breasts and her imperfect hips. A woman with a body like this was unthreatening, almost motherly. A woman without the sleek good looks of a commercial goddess would never turn her back on a man.