by Danny Lopez
“Do me a favor,” Petrillo said as he moved toward the front door. “Don’t disappear.”
“You know where to find me, Officer.”
I watched them both walk out, the back of their broad shoulders, no necks, perfect hair followed by the smell of Paco Rabanne. I hated that cologne.
* * *
I called my lawyer, Brian Farinas. Technically, he was not my lawyer, but a friend who also happens to be a criminal attorney. I told him of my encounter with the dynamic duo.
“And?” he said.
“And what?”
“Are you guilty?” he said quickly like a lawyer running out of time. “Did you—”
“What the fuck kind of question is that?”
“It’s the question, okay? I ask it of all my clients when they’re being charged—”
“I’m not being charged.”
“Not yet, you’re not. But you might, right? I need to ask, Dexter. And you need to answer.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
He sighed. “Good. Good. Very good.”
It pissed me off, as if he might’ve thought I could be capable of murder. Maybe I needed to find a new lawyer friend.
“Just chill. Don’t tell them anything. If they arrest you, call me. Don’t tell them anything. Nothing. Keep your mouth shut.”
“Got it.”
“Nothing.”
“I got it. Nothing.”
“You haven’t told them anything, right?”
When I didn’t answer, he sighed. “You talked to them.”
“A little.”
“Well, no more. You have the right to remain silent. Live it, okay?”
“Yessir.”
“Now, is there anything that can tie you to the murder?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Holly told me her paralegal overheard the detectives mention that my prints were on a sculpture.”
“What sculpture? What are you talking about?”
“The murder weapon.”
“He was killed with a sculpture?”
“Beat his head to a pulp.”
“And your fingerprints are on it? Jesus, Dexter, that’s not good. Do you have an alibi that can be corroborated? Someone who can vouch for you?”
“That would depend on when exactly he got killed.” I told him how I’d left a message on Zavala’s voice mail. “These things have a time on them. That will show I wasn’t there.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Dexter. You could have been standing over the body when you made that call. It proves nothing. We need bodies, people who can say they saw you at the time of the murder in such and such a place.”
There was Boseman and Holly and the AC repairman, but we didn’t know the exact time of the murder. It was fifty-fifty—or less. Still, Brian dismissed the whole thing. “Well, there’s no point in worrying about it until they charge you. We’ll have plenty of time to prepare your defense.”
“You seriously think they’ll arrest me?”
“Frankly? I have no fucking idea.”
* * *
Frey and Petrillo’s little visit gave me the lead I needed: the bartender at Memories. It was a long shot, but it was all I had. Besides, I could also use a drink.
It was still early when I got there. I took a stool at the bar and asked Mac for a beer. When he came back and set the bottle in front of me, I asked him about Nick by name.
He looked toward the jukebox like he was thinking. “Can’t say it rings a bell.”
“Old guy, maybe mid-sixties. Rich.”
Mac shook his head.
“He was here a couple days ago. Some tough guy tossed him out of the bar and started whaling on him—”
“Right. Right.”
“That’s the guy.”
He waved a finger at me. “You know you guys never paid your bill that night.”
I set a fifty on the counter. “Keep the change.”
He took the cash, folded it, and placed it in his shirt pocket. “Yeah, that old guy. He comes in here every now and then, has a couple of drinks and leaves. I don’t remember him talking to anyone, just keeps to himself. You know how it is. But I wouldn’t call him a regular.”
“You know anything about him?”
“Drank bourbon.”
“Anything else?”
“Drove a nice Lexus.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I drank my beer and ordered another. “What about that guy who was beating up on him?”
He shook his head. “Never saw him before or since. It happens. We get drifters and crack heads come in here and harass the customers. It’s the neighborhood.”
I finished my beer and walked to the door. Just as I was about to leave, I stopped, went back to the bar. “What about a girl,” I said. “Tiffany.”
Mac stared at me like he was really making an effort.
I held my hand up level with my shoulder. “About yay high, blond. Teenager, I think. Wears cutoffs and goes around barefoot. Kind of dirty, if you know what I mean?”
He shook his head. “I see a lot of people, man.”
“Has a tattoo of a butterfly on her shoulder.”
His eyes bounced. “Wait a minute, yeah. I think I know who you’re talking about. She used to come in here every now and then, trying to hit up customers for a drink. I had to chase her out a couple of times. But that was months ago.”
“You know where she lives?”
He shook his head.
I pulled out one of my business cards and wrote a note on the back: I got your stuff from Nick’s place. Call me.
I handed it to Mac. “If she comes in here, can you give her this for me?”
“Sure.”
I gave him a twenty. “And let her use your phone.”
* * *
IT WAS DARK when I left the bar. I drove across the Trail and took Bay Shore to check out Nick’s house. The white Grand Marquis was there. I kept going.
When I pulled into my driveway, there was another white Grand Marquis parked on the street in front of the house. Maybe this was it. The arrest. I thought of Brian Farinas. Say nothing.
Detective Petrillo and his right-hand asshole were sitting on the chairs on the front porch of my house.
“There he is,” Petrillo said. He put down the magazine he’d been looking at and stood. “Where you been, Dexter?”
“Looking for a job. Thought I’d check in with the police department. I heard they hire anyone off the street. No experience necessary.”
“Nice.” Petrillo shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away toward the Grand Marquis. I watched him go. I didn’t know why I had played it tough. I guess I was pissed. It just came out of me at the sight of them invading my space.
Frey stood, pulled his jacket back, and set his hands on his waist revealing the handle of a silver-plated revolver tucked in a holster at his side. It was a big .44 or a .357. Not Sarasota PD’s standard-issue Glock 40. “You got anything to say to me?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Fuck you.”
He threw a hook. Caught me high on the gut. Blew my air. My knees buckled. He held me up and hooked me again, same place, knew exactly where to punch. Dropped me like a sack of mulch. I rolled to my side, curled up in a fetal position, gasping.
“Why don’t you come by the office tomorrow and make a full confession,” Frey said and kicked me in the side. Everything went black.
* * *
When I woke up, I was lying on the couch, my head resting comfortably on a woman’s lap. I took in the sweet smell of my favorite perfume and smiled. Before I even opened my eyes, I knew it was Holly.
“Better?” she said.
I nodded.
“What’s going on, Dex?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Cops used me like a punching bag.”
Holly chuckled. “Cops don’t do that. It’s against the law.”
“Well these two did.”
“Come on. Is it possible yo
u came home drunk again?”
I sat up. “What are you talking about? They were waiting for me outside the house. They want something out of me.”
“So why don’t you tell them?”
“Tell them what?”
“Why don’t you tell them what’s going on, Dex. Or tell me. Maybe I can help.”
I shook my head and took a deep breath. My stomach felt better, painful, but I could breathe easy. I got my bearings. Holly looked as beautiful as ever, red lips, green eyes, and all the empathy in the universe. “Why are you here?”
She frowned. “You want me to leave?”
“No. No.” I got up and gestured for her to stay seated. I made my way to the kitchen and pulled out the last two beers. I put one on the table in front of her. “I think they want me to make a confession. That I killed Nick Zavala.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “That’s not how the police work. If they don’t have enough evidence, there’s nothing they can do.”
“Maybe they have no other leads. Petrillo’s climbing the ladder. He wants Chief Miller’s job. You know that.”
“Well, he’s not going to get it by abusing innocent people.”
I raised my beer. “Here’s to the idealist lawyers of the world.”
“Dexter, I’m serious.”
“So am I.” I took a long drink and sat beside her. “How come you’re here, Holly? I haven’t seen you in who knows how long, and then here you are picking me up from the gutter. What’s up?”
She stared at me with those bewitching green eyes. She caressed my hair. “I’m worried about you, Dex.”
“I’m fine.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t think so. The rumor around the courthouse is the State Attorney wants this resolved. The neighborhood is worried there’s some psycho out there. They think they’re going to be next. They have your prints on the murder weapon. Now you’re telling me the police are trying to get a confession out of you.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t do it. And they don’t have a motive.”
“They have a voice mail. You told Nick you were on your way. You know they’ll make a case out of it, Dex. I don’t want you to go to jail.”
It was nice to feel loved, even if it had to be under these circumstances. I touched her shoulder and moved closer. She stood.
“Dex,” she said. “We need to do something about this.”
“We?”
“You. Whatever. I’ll help you. Just tell me what happened. How do you know this man, Zavala?”
“I told you.”
“There has to be more to it than that. Why were you going to his house that night?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I need to think.”
“Dex. You need to trust me.”
“I do. I trust everybody. That’s my problem.”
Then my phone rang. It was Nancy, my ex-wife. I looked at Holly and held my phone up. “I have to take this.”
She gave me a look.
“You didn’t call,” Nancy said, skipping formalities and getting right to the point.
“Something came up.” I was supposed to talk to Zoe. We talked every week. She told me about school and her friends and asked me when I was going to see her again. It was always the same. And every time it broke my heart because there was nothing I could do except tell her I’d see her soon. But soon was an eternity for a seven-year-old girl. It was an eternity for me.
“Something always comes up,” Nancy said. “You’d think you could make a little time for her. You don’t see how disappointed she is when you don’t answer. You need to get your priorities straight.”
“I’ll talk to her next week. I—”
Holly glanced at her watch. “I have to go,” she mouthed.
“Call her tomorrow morning,” Nancy said. “I told her you would.”
“What about school?” I said and gestured for Holly to wait.
“She has a cold. I’m keeping her home. Call her.”
She hung up. I glanced at my phone. I had a voice mail.
Holly took my arm. “I have to let my dogs out. I’ll try and come back later.”
I moved close to her. She squeezed my arm, smiled, gave me the look. We drew close, kissed.
She walked quickly toward the door. Then she stopped and turned to face me. “Dex, be careful.”
I stood in the middle of the living room, a beer in my hand and the taste of her tongue in my mouth. I heard her car start, back out of the driveway, and drive off.
I played the voice mail in my phone. It was Zoe. Hi, Daddy. Mommy said I could call you because you didn’t call. I’m sick. Mommy says I have a fever. I have to tell you about my art project. I made a painting of you and me at the beach and it won a prize at the school show. I wanted to give it to you, but Mommy’s friend Zach said he really liked it and Mommy said I should give it to him so he can hang it in his office. Also, I want to get a puppy, but Mommy said I can’t have one. Maybe you can talk to her and tell her it’s a good idea. Okay? I love you, Daddy.
Hearing Zoe, her innocence, the simplicity of her requests, her generosity, broke my heart. I was a terrible father. She didn’t deserve me. I set my empty beer down, took Holly’s, and guzzled it.
I couldn’t stand feeling so damn helpless, made my stomach turn. Zoe was in Texas with her mom, and there was nothing I could do about it. The whole system is rigged. The kids are always the losers when it comes to divorce. Nancy put up a good fight with a good lawyer. It broke me financially and emotionally. But that was five years ago. I had to trust that Zoe knew better. That I loved her and wanted to be with her, but there were forces greater than us that prevented me from making her life as perfect as I wanted it to be.
I paced. I pushed my thoughts of Zoe out of the way and concentrated on Zavala. I had to figure it out. I had to clean up the mess.
I opened my Maya file. I added all the info from the last day, every detail, even the beers I drank at Memories and the cash I gave Mac. Then I leaned back on my chair and reviewed everything.
I had a journalism professor at the University of Houston who said the most important thing when doing research for an article was to turn the facts around and look at the project from the opposite angle, use a different point of view, a different narrator.
I did that. I did it from every possible angle. But I still came up empty. The only thing I could figure was that Tiffany had the answer to the puzzle. Or maybe not. She could be in the exact same position I was in—an innocent bystander who got caught in the crossfire. And who knew? Maybe she was already in police custody, telling Petrillo and Frey everything, making up all kinds of stories.
But what if she wasn’t in custody? I could cruise the North Trail and look for her. And if I found her, what then? It didn’t mean shit. Besides, it could take me weeks or months to find her. Or the rough guy from Memories. No. Whoever killed Nick had access to the house. And a motive.
Then there was Maya. She and Tiffany knew Nick. They were the only ones who could help me figure this thing out and avoid getting nailed for Nick’s murder.
I had Maya’s information in my little notebook. I flipped through the pages. Colonia Roma. The biology team with the UNAM. It wouldn’t be difficult to find her, just find the university team working with the salamanders in Xochimilco. She might know if Nick had any enemies. She’d have names of acquaintances, people I could interview, leads to possible motives.
Besides, in a strange way, I felt I owed it to Nick. He hired me to find his daughter. I hadn’t completely fulfilled my job. And I still had about eight grand left of the money he’d paid me.
Yeah, I’m kind of honest that way.
CHAPTER TEN
I FLEW OUT of the Tampa airport with a brief layover in Houston. I called Zoe and did my best to convey my feelings, that I loved her more than my own life and that one day things would be different and we’d be together more often. My words seemed to fly over her head, although one never knows. She just said she u
nderstood that I was very busy, and made me promise I would talk to Nancy about the puppy. I laughed about the simple innocence of her world. I only wished it could stay that way forever.
Landing at night in Mexico City is like floating into a display of Christmas lights. The city goes on forever. The lights spread all over the valley and get lost among the mountains, then reappear on the side of a mountain and drift in patches down toward the valley—reds and yellows and whites—a magic constellation far off in a different galaxy.
My grandparents were Mexican, but I had only been to Mexico once, and my Spanish was rudimentary, if not worse. When I first visited the country three years ago, I went to the state of Jalisco to find the family of the migrant worker that had been shot and killed by a Sarasota police officer. I hired a fixer I found through a colleague who worked with the Associated Press in Miami. She called the Mexico City bureau, and they found me a young man, Fidel Prado. He took me to Jalisco, translated, and showed me the ins and outs of the intricacies of dealing inside Mexico. Fidel was great. But when I e-mailed him about helping me on this trip, he was unavailable. He now worked for the government’s press and communications office and was up to his neck deflecting press inquiries about accusations of government corruption and the rumor that the president was directly involved in the disappearance of forty-three students in the southern state of Guerrero at the hands of the police. Still, Fidel agreed to set me up with a gringo journalist who knew the expat community in the city. It made sense. After all, I was looking for an American woman who’d been in Mexico City for a few months, not a family of peasants in the middle of nowhere.
I checked in to the Hotel Maria Cristina, a relatively inexpensive place in the financial center of the city. It was a throwback to the 1970s with clean but basic rooms. What it lacked in luxury, it had in the perfect bar, a small colonial-style cottage across a pleasant garden inside the hotel property. That little bar made you feel like you were really in Mexico. It had comfortable seats, a patio, bowls with salted peanuts, WiFi, and a heavyset, attentive bartender named Julio.
It turned out that the gringo Fidel had set me up with was not a gringo at all. Malcolm Stone was a high-strung Scotsman. He rolled his r’s like an old diesel engine and spoke much too fast for me to understand what he said. I had to keep asking him to repeat everything, which pissed the hell out of him. He was young—early twenties, had a flat boxer’s nose and messy pink-blond hair. He said he’d been struck by lightning when he was a teenager. It gave him a twitch that made him blink all the time as if he were suffering from shell shock.