by Danny Lopez
Petrillo leaned past Frey and shut the laptop. “There’s more. A lot more. Some pretty sick shit.”
“It’s not mine.”
Petrillo grinned. “We can put you away for a long time, Vega.”
“You know what they do to pedophiles in prison?” Frey said.
I leaned back on the chair. “It’s not mine.”
“Bullshit,” Frey said. “It’s your laptop.”
“It’s my computer, but those are not my files.” I kept thinking of Brian Farinas: say nothing. But fuck this. They were framing me. Those were not my files.
“And you know what? We found a lot of kiddie porn in Nick Zavala’s house,” Frey said. “Some of it matches what’s on your computer. You two had something going on, didn’t you?”
I shook my head. Then I glanced at Petrillo. “I’m not saying another word until I speak with my lawyer.”
* * *
They walked me across the street for booking and I spent the night in a cell. After my first appearance in front of a judge, they set bail. Brian got me out by the late afternoon.
“It’s bad,” he said as we walked out of the building. “They have the evidence, Dex. How did that shit find its way into your computer?”
We stopped at the hot-dog cart on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse. I was starving. I ordered two hot dogs and a Coke. “They stole my computer—”
“Who, the cops?” Brian was a big guy. He wore dark suits that were too small for him. They looked incredibly tight and uncomfortable.
“A couple of weeks ago someone broke into my house. They stole my computer. Someone must have used it. They put those files in there.”
“Did you report the theft?”
I shook my head and took a bite of my hot dog. “I didn’t think they would find it. You know how it is. Ninety percent of robberies go unsolved; goods are rarely recovered.”
“Jesus, Dex—”
“I was busy.”
“So how did Petrillo and Frey end up with the computer?”
“I have no idea.” My mouth was full of hot dog, extra mustard. “But what’s fucked up is that it has the same porn files they found in Zavala’s house.”
“Here’s the problem,” Brian said. “Even if we can prove the files were put in your computer in the last two weeks, or whatever date is written on the files, we can’t prove your computer was stolen. They’ll just say you put the files in there.”
“Maybe they did it.”
“Who, Petrillo and Frey? Give me a break, Dex.”
“Listen.” I wiped my mouth with a napkin and poked him in the chest. “The computer was stolen right after Nick Zavala was killed. Then suddenly it shows up full of kiddie porn in the hands of the cops. That’s too much coincidence.”
Brian stared at me. He shook his head. “You think Petrillo and Frey had this whole thing planned from the start? Shit. That’s saying they were in on the murder.”
“I don’t know,” I said and lowered my voice. “I don’t think it’s them. But something’s going on because that shit ain’t mine.”
Brian paid for the hot dogs and we walked across the street to the parking lot. “You got a lot of explaining. What happened in Mexico? Who worked you over?”
“That’s another funny story,” I said. “You remember that guy who a few years back conned the city into giving him a couple million to bring Hollywood to Sarasota?”
“Yeah, he built a big studio near the airport.”
“Michael Boseman,” I said.
“And?”
“I think he killed Nick Zavala.”
“One thing at a time,” Brian said. We got into his Range Rover and turned up Washington Boulevard to go pick up my car at the pound. “We need to figure out this porn case. The State Attorney won’t let something like that fly. They’re hard-asses with this kind of thing.”
“They stole my computer!”
“Who’s they?”
I turned away, looked out the window. “I don’t know.”
Brian shook his head. I could tell he was worried. It was rare to see him like this. He was usually so laid back, making jokes. He reminded me of Bluto, John Belushi’s character in Animal House.
He cranked up the AC and turned one of the vents toward me. “You have an alibi?”
“What for?”
“For the computer. Did anyone know the laptop was stolen? Anyone who can corroborate your side of the story?”
“Holly.”
“Holly Lovett?”
“Yeah, Holly Lovett.”
* * *
When I got home I showered, cleaned the stink of jail off me. Then I called Holly. She didn’t answer, but I left her a voice mail telling her I was back in town and that I needed to see her. “I have a lot to tell you.”
I hung up and thought of Flor. I was not going to mention her to Holly, but it was odd how I couldn’t think about one without thinking of the other. It made me feel queasy.
I put on Miles Davis, an original first press of Sketches of Spain, and lay down on the couch to think.
Mimi hopped on my belly and lay curled up, purring like a kitten. I wasn’t sure what to do next. I needed to know what the cops were thinking. I needed to know what they had. Someone was doing a damn good job of framing me. For all I knew the cops could have found Tiffany in the house and taken her in. Maybe she put it all on me. No. She didn’t even know my name.
Who the fuck stole my laptop and loaded it with kiddie porn?
I couldn’t see Petrillo setting me up like this. He was too smart. He’d been a cop for too long. Besides, despite the fact that we clashed on a lot of things, he wasn’t a bad guy. And he was honest. Frey. That was another story. That motherfucker wanted to speed-climb the ladder. I could see him doing everything possible to build a case, even if he had to do a little dirty work.
After a while, I hopped in my Subaru and headed south toward the grocery store. I needed to pick up some supplies, food, booze; but for some reason I kept driving past the Publix. I didn’t know where I was going. I just kept going, thinking. I figured maybe something would wake up a memory, spring an idea, put me back on track.
A part of me wanted to come clean with Petrillo. I wanted to tell him about Mike Boseman. But now that they had all this other shit on me, it would look like a diversion, like I was trying to slither out of the way. Besides, I had no evidence to link Boseman to Maya, much less Nick.
I drove down to Siesta Key. I had just turned on Midnight Pass Road and was approaching the turn-off for Point of Rocks when the blue Prius in front of me slammed on the breaks. A silver Buick in the other lane screeched. I swerved off the road to avoid the Prius. A green Mustang and a red VW cut across Midnight Pass and sped back toward town. The man in the Prius gave someone the finger. Classy snowbirds.
I parked in front of Boseman’s shuttered house. The silver Jaguar was in the driveway. I sat in my car thinking, but there was nothing to figure out. I knew what I had to do.
I walked to the back, checked the hurricane shutters, every door and window. They were of excellent quality, and all of them were locked.
I went back to my car and took the tire iron from the spare tire kit. I walked around the side again. There was a side door, probably to the kitchen or utility. It was the only one that wasn’t covered by a metal shutter. I used the flat section of the tire iron like a crowbar. I jammed it between the door and the threshold above the lock and pushed.
It’s not like in the movies. The lock didn’t budge. I raised the tire iron a little higher and tried again. A small chunk of the door busted. I shoved the tire iron further between the door and the threshold and pushed. I broke another piece. It was the only way. I slowly tore the door apart. The hinges and locks remained intact. When the hole was big enough for me to slide my hand in, I reached in and unlocked the door.
I listened for the beep of an alarm. Nothing. I checked the wall around the utility room. No alarm. I wiped the sweat from my face with my
shirt and made my way through the kitchen, the dining room, the living room. The shutters made the house dark. There was very little furniture. I found the alarm panel in the foyer. It wasn’t armed.
I switched a light on and began searching for something—anything. There was nothing personal in the house: no art, photos, papers, clothes. But someone had brought the mail in. There was a stack of envelopes on a chair by the hallway between the living room and the dining room. I flipped through it. Junk mail and advertising flyers addressed to Boseman or current resident. Nothing personal. No letters. No bills.
I went upstairs. The same. No furniture, nothing personal, except the bedroom had a nice four-poster bed with pillows, sheets, and a thick comforter. There was toilet paper in the master bathroom. I checked under the bed and found a pack of Trojan condoms.
I glanced at the large shuttered window. This had to be the room from which Boseman had been looking down at the patio when I first came here.
I went downstairs and looked in the garage. Empty. When I came here before leaving for Mexico, the house had just been shuttered. The Jaguar had not been in the driveway. It could have been in the garage. Someone must have moved it. Or someone was driving it.
Either Boseman was back or he had an accomplice. What I couldn’t put together was why he lived like this, in a house with no furniture.
I went into the kitchen. Checked the fancy Sub-Zero fridge. A plastic gallon of water and an open box of baking soda.
I checked the cupboards and drawers. No plates or flatware, no food.
It was useless. I sat on a chair. Maybe Boseman was getting ready to sell the house. But what about the Jaguar? Maybe it wasn’t his.
I walked out the side door where I had come in and walked toward the front. There was a large plastic trash can and a pair of recycling bins next to the AC unit.
I opened the trash. Two big black Glad bags. I pulled one out and tore it open. It stank of rot—of dead animal. I held my breath and sifted through the shit. I found an electric bill and a receipt from Publix. The FPL bill was in Boseman’s name and totaled $763.42. The invoice was for three months and was demanding immediate payment. The grocery receipt was for a whole roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, two salad bags, a twelve-pack of Corona, and a bottle of Mirassou wine. Dated four days ago.
I checked the recycle bins. Twelve empty bottles of Corona, an empty bottle of Mirassou wine, an empty bottle of Margarita mix. The other bag was worse. The stench was unbearable. The contents had turned to mulch.
I went to the back, rinsed my hands in the pool, and walked around the other side to the front. I placed my hand on the hood of the Jaguar. Warm. But it could be the sun. I placed my hand in front of the radiator. It was impossible to tell. I checked the tires, ran my hands over them to see if there was a key. I knelt down and checked around the front bumper. Nothing.
When I stood up, a white Grand Marquis was pulling up behind the Jag. Petrillo and Frey got out of the car. Frey pulled out his pistol and pointed it at me. “Okay, buddy boy, hold it right there.”
I raised my hands. “I’m unarmed.”
Petrillo waved at Frey to put down his gun. It was his official weapon, a Glock 40 and not that Dirty Harry monster I had seen him packing the other day outside my house. Frey pointed the weapon up but didn’t holster it.
Petrillo approached me from the left side of the Jaguar. “What the fuck are you doing here, Vega?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” I said.
“Put your hands down,” he said and looked back at Frey standing to the side of the Jag, his Glock pointed up, but ready. “Jesus Christ, will you holster that thing.”
Frey put the gun away slowly and walked around the other side of the Jag.
“I was trying to find Mike Boseman.”
“He a friend of yours?” Frey asked.
“Sort of.” I looked at Petrillo. “What are you doing here?”
“We got a call.”
I looked at the neighbor’s house. It was shuttered.
“Did you break in?” Frey moved closer, his hands resting at the sides of his waist.
I shrugged and addressed Petrillo. “Who called you?”
“Anonymous tip.”
“Right,” I said. “But did they call 911 or did they call you personally?”
“That’s none of your business.” Frey grabbed my arm, turned me to face him. “I asked you a question.”
“I was just looking for my friend.”
He pushed me against the car. “Put your hands on the vehicle.”
I looked at Petrillo. He looked down, kicked the Jag’s tire.
I did as I was told. Frey came behind me and frisked me. Then he took my right arm. The cuff zipped around my wrist. Then he cuffed the other. Two times in two days. Unbelievable.
Frey turned me and sat me on the hood of the Jaguar facing him.
“Now what?” I said.
He put his index between my eyes. “You stay here.”
Frey and Petrillo walked to the back of the house. They were gone for about twenty minutes. When they came back, Petrillo said nothing. Frey grabbed me by the arm and led me to the backseat of the Grand Marquis—didn’t even bother to read me my damn rights.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THEY SAT ME down in the interrogation room and shot a lot of questions at me about my relationship with Boseman, about what I was doing in the house, why I had broken in. They brought up the kiddie porn again—threatened me with prison. I told them nothing.
I used my phone call to ask Brian Farinas to get me out. But I hadn’t been booked. I wasn’t even walked across the street to the jail. I was cuffed in an office on the second floor of the Sarasota PD building. So Brian couldn’t bail me out. Instead, an officer escorted me down to the lobby. I could see Brian’s big frame by the tall glass windows. “What’s the matter with you?” he said and put his arm around me. “Can’t you just take it easy for one day?”
“Shit, Brian.”
“They didn’t abuse you in any way, did they?”
“They gave me coffee,” I said.
“First class.”
“Vega!” It was Petrillo. “Can I have a word?”
Brian frowned and put his index finger to his lips. “I’ll wait outside.”
I turned to Petrillo. “Detective.”
“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on. And I know Frey’s been a little hard on you—”
“A little?”
“The State Attorney’s office is breathing down our necks about the Zavala case. And Chief Miller is right there with them.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Miller’s got Frey on a short leash.”
I smiled. “They oughta put him in the pound.”
“Maybe.” Petrillo grinned. “But there’s more to it than that.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned closer to him. “What’s going on?”
“Miller’s being considered for a position up north in Beantown.”
“Boston? No shit.”
“And she’s grooming Frey to take over.”
“And you’re jealous.”
“Don’t be an ass, Vega. But if Miller leaves for the cold north and she gets her way, Frey’ll be running the roost.”
Interesting. So Petrillo was getting a little loose with his new partner. Nothing like divide and conquer. “What’s going on with the Zavala murder?”
His eyes made a little ballet around the lobby. Then he leaned a little closer. “You’re it.”
I smiled. I didn’t believe him and I wanted him to know that. “So why don’t you arrest me?”
“Miller and Frey want all the Ts crossed. No room for error. It has to be solid.”
“You know it’s bullshit.”
“There’s another thing,” he said and glanced at his shoes. “Miller heard about Frey getting physical with you.”
I chuckled. “Who’d she hear that from?”
“Does it
matter?”
“I don’t know, Detective. You tell me.”
“No one’s moving on the Zavala case until they know they have a case they can’t lose. Everyone up there’s watching.”
I smiled and looked up. Frey was standing by the glass on the second floor, his hands in his pants pockets, looking down at us like a vulture. I said, “What if I told you I knew who did it?”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I might. But my information’s not free.”
He waved his index finger at me. “Look, Vega, if you’re withholding information—”
“What? If I’m withholding information, you’re going to arrest me? Fuck that shit. Tell me what you know.”
“Dexter!” It was Brian. He’d come back into the building. He tapped at his wrist. The cheap imitation Rolex reflected the fluorescents in the lobby. “Let’s go.”
I smiled at Petrillo. “You’re costing me money.”
I joined Brian and we walked out of the building and into the blinding, hot afternoon. We crossed the street to the Pane Park parking lot. Three teenagers rushed past us on their skateboards.
Brian walked quickly, his short arms swinging at his sides. “What was that about?”
“He said I was a prime suspect in the Zavala murder.”
Brian stopped. “He said that?”
I shrugged. “Not in those words. But Miller won’t let them move on it until they have a rock-solid case.”
Brian smiled. “They don’t want to fuck it up.”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
We started walking again. “So what the fuck were you doing breaking into a house on Siesta Key?”
We got into Brian’s Range Rover and started toward my house. “It’s Mike Boseman’s house.”
“The Hollywood guy?”
The AC felt good on my face. I put my hands up to the vents to take it in. “The one and only.”
“Go on.”
“He was dating Nick’s daughter who isn’t really Nick’s daughter.”
He looked at me.
I pointed ahead. “Watch the road, Counselor.”
He turned on my street and pulled up by the driveway. “Where’s your car?”
“Siesta.”