by Danny Lopez
I called Flor again and left her a voice mail, telling her I would wait for her after work at the little café across the street from her apartment in La Condesa.
The first thing I did was go to the Camino Real to check on Boseman.
“Yes, Boseman,” I repeated to the desk clerk at the hotel, “Boseman, B-O-S-E-M-A-N.”
He worked his keyboard and shook his head. “I’m sorry. We don’t have anyone registered by that name.”
“Did he check out recently?” I said. “I was supposed to meet him, but my plane was late.”
The clerk looked at me for a moment, then he worked his keyboard. “Michael Boseman. Yes. He checked out yesterday.”
Well, hello!
I’d had him, but I lost him. The question was what to do next. I looked at the clerk. “What about Maya Zav—sorry, Maya Edwards?”
He took a deep breath and checked for it. He shook his head. “No one registered by that name.”
“What about in the last week?”
He grinned. “I’m sorry, but we don’t give out guest information.”
“But you just gave me Boseman’s information.”
“I was doing you a favor.”
“Can you do me another favor and check for Maya Edwards?”
“I can’t do that.”
I sighed, pulled my wallet out, pushed a five-hundred-peso bill across the counter. He took the money, smiled, and his fingers danced on the keys again. Then he looked at me, his head tilted to the side. “No Maya Edwards. Sorry.”
“All week?”
“Never,” he said. “She’s not in the system.”
I walked away looking at the people: the executives, the businessmen and women, the sunburned Americans. It was a big hotel with a busy lobby. Mike Boseman wasn’t here, but things were beginning to gel. Maya and Boseman were not together. Otherwise Boseman would have stayed with Maya. I was almost one hundred percent certain that Boseman was looking for Maya. The question was why. I took a taxi to La Condesa and found a seat outside the little café by Flor’s apartment. I ordered a cappuccino and watched the people making their way along the sidewalks, checking the menus posted outside the restaurants. It reminded me of downtown Sarasota. For the first time since I had arrived, I was homesick. The town I loved to criticize was now a paradise in my imagination. There was an order to things. Here, despite the big shade trees and the cafés one after another along the sidewalk, there was a weird anarchy: the cars double parked on the road, mayhem everywhere, the juxtaposition of wealth and poverty. It was unnerving.
My heart was beating fast. My palms were sweaty. Every dark-colored SUV that rolled past spooked me. I was pretty sure I was being watched.
“Dexter!”
It was Flor. She ran to me. “Oh, Dios mio. What happened to you?”
“Someone put a cigar out in my ear.”
She touched my cheek, her hand floating gently over the cut. “What’s going on?”
I came clean with everything. I told her about Nick and Maya and Boseman and the goons from the other night. I just dumped it all on her lap like a dying man making a final confession.
Her eyes welled up. She squeezed my hand. Her lower lip trembled like she was about to cry, but she held it in. I appreciated that. I’m not sure I could’ve handled her crying or going into hysterics. This whole thing was getting crazier by the day. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could remain in control. I had not been able to talk to anyone about the case, if I could even call it that anymore. But talking to Flor took a huge weight off my chest.
We went up to her apartment, and she ran a bath for me, helped me undress. She sat on the floor of the bathroom next to the tub and washed my beaten and bruised body. I closed my eyes and thanked my lucky stars. This was a woman to keep. I was in a place I had wanted to be in all my life, except I hadn’t realized that. My stomach tightened when I thought of leaving, of seeing Holly again, that she could ever be as nurturing as Flor.
No matter what, I was going to have to go away, leave Flor. It wasn’t that I was scared, although that was part of it. I had to find Tiffany. I had to figure out who killed Nick. And Boseman. I had to find out how he figured into this.
I verbalized my thoughts, my head just over the waterline. “I’m going to have to go home soon.”
“Shhh.”
“We need to face it,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “I knew this all the time. And so did you.”
“You don’t mind?” I was hurt.
“I mind,” she said. “Of course I do. But I refuse to avoid things in life just because they might be painful.”
I leaned my head to the side and looked into her eyes. I felt myself melting into the water. I hated and loved it—the sweet pain, the wild sensation of gaining and losing all at once.
“I know,” I said. “You have to live life.”
“I’m glad I met you, Dexter Vega. And I’m glad we’ve had this time together.”
She wasn’t sentimental about it. She was a realist. I liked that. I liked everything about her.
“Maybe you will come back soon.”
“Maybe you can visit me in Sarasota.”
“Sure.” She smiled. “Maybe.”
I closed my eyes and let the moment sink into me, the smell of the soap and the feeling of her fingers gliding gently over my skin. There were too many maybes in my life. They were like a never-ending echo: maybe. Maybe what I needed was something absolute, something certain. Maybe.
* * *
The following evening, I took a taxi to Toni’s place in La Roma. I was early for the dinner invitation, but I wanted to talk with her about Maya. I had to tell her about Boseman. Maybe deep down I had the intuition she would give me a clue, something that would help me figure this thing out.
Her apartment was in an old art deco building. It was large with a lot of windows and looked down on a small park. A maid let me in. The walls were covered with art. An old stereo played a vinyl record of Miles Davis’ “E.S.P.” I could hear the definition, the dust cracking and popping.
Toni was all dressed up, working in the kitchen with another maid, giving orders, making sure everything was perfect. I don’t know what she was cooking but it smelled amazing. When she saw me, she did a double take.
“What happened?” She came to me and placed her hand on my cheek. It’s funny how women do that. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m early, but I wanted to talk with you.”
“Is this about Maya?”
“Everything’s about Maya.”
She smiled. Then she gave instructions to the cook and led me out of the kitchen. “Can I offer you a cocktail?”
“Just a beer.”
She asked the maid for a beer and a glass of wine. Then she squinted at me. “Someone didn’t like you.”
I followed her to the balcony and we sat. The windows were open and the sound of the traffic below mixed with the Miles Davis tunes. The maid brought the drinks. She held her wineglass with both hands the way you might hold a cup of hot cocoa on a cold day.
“There’s this man,” I said. “Mike Boseman. He was in a relationship with Maya back in Florida. Now he’s here. I’m pretty sure he’s looking for her.”
“And he did this to you?”
I nodded. “His men did.”
I told Toni the whole story. She sat in her chair listening very carefully as if I were giving her a set of detailed instructions on how to save the world. She didn’t even take a sip of her wine. She just sat, listening, nodding, her wide dark eyes locked on mine.
When I was done with the story, she gave me a knowing smile and said: “He’ll never find her.”
I leaned back. The Miles Davis album had stopped playing and I was imagining the needle dancing at the end of the record, waiting for someone to pick it up.
“How do you know?” I said.
“Because I do.”
“But you can’t be sure—”
&nbs
p; “She’s gone, Dexter.”
“What?”
“She knew this man was after her. She chose to meet with you and set the record straight. Then she left. She doesn’t want to be found.”
I let it sink in. Toni knew more than she had let on earlier. It pissed me off, but it also reassured me. In a weird way, I knew Maya would be okay. But I still didn’t get Boseman’s game.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“It’s exactly like Maya told you. She just wants out of her old life.”
“But what about Boseman? What does he want with her?”
Toni shrugged. The doorbell rang and the maid went to the door. Toni leaned forward and touched my knee. “I suggest you leave it alone, Dexter.”
She stood and went to meet the couple who had just arrived. I looked out on the little park across the street. I wasn’t going to press Toni about what she knew about Maya. It was obvious she knew her better than she had let on. And she had helped me. Perhaps it was better left at that. Maya was free. She knew how to take care of herself. Perhaps Boseman was not as much of a threat as I thought he might be. It was time for me to go—time to face whatever was going on with Nick Zavala’s murder back home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MY HOUSE WAS exactly as I had left it. Mimi the cat was lying on the top of the chaise, soaking in what was left of the evening sun. She was so happy to see me, she raised her head from her comfy spot, yawned, and dropped her head back down. Welcome home, Dexter.
In the morning I met my faithful friend and skinny gay photographer, Rachel, at C’est La Vie, a little French restaurant on Main Street. I owed her for taking care of Mimi and keeping an eye on my place while I was gone. But I also wanted an update on the Zavala case.
We sat inside, way in the back of the divided dining room. I didn’t want anyone walking by recognizing me, giving me shit. I ordered the quiche lorraine and a salad. Rachel had an omelet.
She leaned to the side and studied my face. “You’re looking good. Especially the thing in the ear. What happened, you piss off a Mexican?”
I grinned. I appreciated her sense of humor, but I was quickly running out of patience. I had too much going on in my head. “So, what’s going on with Nick’s murder?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and focused on her food. “No one’s been arrested. Jason Kirkpatrick did a brief story about the lack of progress in the case. Quoted Petrillo, mostly. It was all about how it was an ongoing investigation and they were narrowing their list of suspects.”
“Narrowing their list. Nice. That’s cop-speak for we got nothing. Anything on me?”
She spread her arms, fork in her hand. “Why does it always have to be about you?”
“I’m serious.”
“Kirkpatrick said there were no warrants out for anyone. Shit, Dexter, you know how they are. In two years everyone will forget about it.”
“Not Petrillo. Certainly not that other asshole.”
“True. But they need concrete evidence and a decent motive. You know that. The last thing Miller wants is to nab the wrong guy. I think she’s up to here with scandals.” She glanced at my plate. “You going to eat the rest of that?”
I pushed my plate toward her. “You think they know I was gone?”
She picked the crust of my quiche with her hand. “Who, the cops?”
“No, the fucking painters. Who do you think?”
She pointed at me with the crust. “You’re getting paranoid, Dex.”
Rachel didn’t know about my prints on the penis sculpture. Paranoid or not, I was afraid to get snagged by Petrillo at any moment. I had to find Tiffany.
I got a new cell phone and then I took a drive along Bay Shore. I pulled up across the street from Nick’s house. There were no cars, no activity. It was just another peaceful day in the beautiful Sapphire Shores neighborhood of Sarasota. A family rode past on bicycles. In the ocean, between Nick’s house and the neighbor’s place, a couple of small sailboats glided by in the distance. The salty air, the blue sky, the quiet—it was a real change from Mexico City. I rolled down my window and breathed it all in. And what came across my mind was Flor. Beautiful, smart, empathetic.
I started the engine and drove around the neighborhood. Then I got on the North Trail by New College and drove south. I wasn’t sure what I was thinking. I thought maybe I would see Tiffany walking the streets. She didn’t strike me as a prostitute, but if she had no money, had been a runaway, and had nowhere to go, she might be out here looking for a way to make some cash.
I drove all the way to Fruitville Road and back up to the airport and back. I saw a man selling drugs. Probably crack. But no Tiffany. This was crazy, driving like this. It wasn’t methodical. I thought of Flor searching for the axolotl with her team. They had maps, they had grids. They had a plan. They were extremely methodical. I was doing it all wrong. I would never find Tiffany by wandering around the North Trail. That would be coincidence. That wasn’t how it worked. And I knew it.
Then, just as I passed 10th Street, I saw a woman walking alone. I pulled up on 12th Street and waited for her to catch up to me. She was wearing jean cutoffs and a tank top and smoking a cigarette. She looked rough, either a prostitute or homeless. Or somewhere in between.
She came to the passenger side of my car. I opened the window. She leaned in. “What’s up?”
“I wonder if you can help me out,” I said.
“That depends,” she said, and turned to the side and blew the smoke away from my car. “What you looking for, sweetie?”
“I’m looking for a girl. Blond. Her name’s Tiffany.”
She made a face. “What do I look like?” she said and looked over the car at the other side of the street, and then behind her. Then she stepped back. “Cops,” she said and started walking away quickly.
I looked in the rearview mirror. A police cruiser was waiting for traffic to pass so it could turn on 12th. I put my Subaru in gear, took a left on Cocoanut Avenue, and headed north.
Two blocks later, I saw the cop car turn on Cocoanut and speed up behind me. The cruiser’s lights flashed. A blip of the siren. I pulled over and put my hands over the wheel. I wasn’t black, but I was light-brown. To the Sarasota Police it made little difference. I didn’t want to give them an excuse.
I watched the two cops approach my car from behind, each with a hand at their side, resting on the handle of their Glocks.
The one on the driver’s side said, “License and registration.”
I handed him my documents. He was in his thirties, clean-cut, buff, fat neck.
The other cop came around the other side to the front and then to my side. “Can you step out of the car?” he said. “Hands where I can see them.”
I did as he asked. “What’d I do?”
“Turn around and place your hands on the car,” he said, pointing to the roof of my Subaru. The other cop was already back in the cruiser checking my documents on his computer.
I put my hands on the roof of the car. Hot. Across the sidewalk, I saw the faces of two black kids in the window of a house staring at me. I smiled. They didn’t smile back.
“What’d I do?”
“Soliciting a prostitute,” he said.
“What? I was just asking for directions.”
The other cop walked over and immediately placed a cuff on my right wrist and pulled my arm back.
“What the fuck?” It hurt my ribs where I’d received the pounding. “You can’t arrest me for nothing.”
They cuffed my other hand. “Do you have anything sharp in your pockets, needles, knives …”
“No.”
He shoved his hands in my pockets and pulled all the contents out: change, my wallet. They put it in a baggie. The one cop grabbed my arm and walked me to the cruiser while giving me the Miranda Rights.
I sat alone in the back of the cruiser while they searched my car. Then they locked it up and talked, glancing back at me every now and then. After about twenty minutes
they got in the cruiser and we drove to the station. They never told me what they’d arrested me for. I thought of what Brian Farinas had said: say nothing. Besides, solicitation of prostitution was difficult to prove. And they hadn’t nabbed the woman. They had nothing. I leaned back in the seat, my hands slightly to the side, the cuffs pinching my skin.
* * *
The Sarasota police station is like a lounge at the airport, clean and comfortable and very modern. They took me to an interrogation room on the second floor. It was small, about six-by-eight feet with fancy metal walls, a pair of new office chairs, a small table, and a video camera in a corner of the ceiling. I sat alone, the cold AC blowing on my face. Twenty minutes later, Petrillo walked in.
“Well, what do you know?” I said. “Did you miss me?”
“We have a warrant for your arrest,” he said and sat on the side of the table, trying to act cool like some badass TV cop.
“For what?” I said. I was sure it was all bullshit, but there was a smidgen of doubt in the back of my head. Either way, I wasn’t going to let on about a damn thing. My lawyer said not to talk. I didn’t.
Petrillo pointed at my cheek. “What happened to your face?”
“I cut myself shaving,” I said. “You going to tell me about this warrant?”
He took in a long, deep breath. “You’re under arrest for possession of child pornography,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” I thought of the two uniformed cops searching my car. They could have planted something.
Petrillo gestured toward the camera, the little black dome in the corner of the room. A moment later Frey walked in carrying a MacBook. He set it on the table and opened it. “Is this your computer?”
I recognized my documents on the desktop. “Looks like it.”
“Good,” Frey said. “Let’s take a look at this.” He clicked on a file. In a couple of seconds, a movie started playing. A man and a boy were tying up a girl to a bed. She couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. The footage was jittery, slightly dark—amateurish. The girl struggled. The man smacked her in the face. Then he ran his hands over her flat chest. The camera moved to the side to get a better angle. The man mounted the girl, covered her whole body like a blanket.