by Danny Lopez
“Any other prints?”
He looked at me like I had something coming down my face. Then he glanced at his shoes. “Tiffany Roberts. A sixteen-year-old runaway. Originally from Fort Myers. Now in Sarasota. She has three priors with the Lee County Sheriff’s office, all drug possession. She also had a prior in Sarasota for prostitution. We picked her up on the North Trail last week and turned her in to Child Services. That’s how it works, right?”
“I didn’t make the rules.”
“Her prints are all over the house, but not in the study where Zavala was killed. Besides, she’s a tiny little thing. I can’t see her banging his head with that big bronze dildo.”
“Tell me something, how did you guys end up with my laptop?”
“Anonymous tip,” he said.
“Would that be the same anonymous who called you to tip you off when I broke into Boseman’s house?”
Petrillo shrugged. “Sometime last week the computer showed up on my desk.”
“Just like that.”
He nodded. “Just like that.”
“Maybe your fairy godmother put it there.”
He spread his arms. “It’s how it happened.”
“You’re a cop. Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious, a laptop materializing out of nowhere, and then someone calling you about me breaking into Boseman’s place?”
“What’d you expect me to do, toss it out? It’s evidence.”
“You know, for a while I thought it was you and Frey trying to frame me. But now I can see you’re too dumb for something like that. Someone’s trying to put this shit on me.”
Petrillo grinned. “Yeah, who?”
I laughed. “I wish I knew.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on. Why are your prints on the murder weapon?”
I stared at his eyes, waved a finger at him. “Against the advice of my lawyer,” I said. “I’m going to tell you something. You’re off duty. You’re drinking. And you let Frey punch me in the gut when I wasn’t resisting, wasn’t even looking. You fuck with me, Petrillo, and I will not just have internal affairs rip you a new one, I’ll go to the feds. And the press.”
“Take it easy.”
“I’m not fucking with you. I’ve done nothing wrong. But you motherfuckers have me running like a rabbit—”
“That’s Frey.”
“That’s both of you.”
He raised his hands. Then he set his beer down on the coffee table. It was empty. I figured this was a good time to bring out the tequila. Two glasses. No lime.
Petrillo drank it like a gringo. Shot after shot down the hatch. I sipped. When I put my glass down, he looked at me and sighed like he was expecting a miracle.
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “I met Nick at a bar a few weeks ago, and he hired me to find his daughter who had been attending New College but had fallen off the map in the last few months.”
“She did?”
“You guys were on it.”
“No we weren’t.”
“You looked into it. You dropped the case. There was no sign of foul play. The girl’s a woman. Twenty-two. She can do whatever she wants.”
Petrillo shook his head. “We’d follow through. Missing persons case. There’s no record on Zavala. I looked.”
“Bullshit.”
He stared at me, his eyes a little bloodshot. No. He wasn’t lying. Zavala was.
Petrillo frowned. “Did he pay you?”
“That’s my business. But that’s why my fingerprints are on that big bronze dick. He was showing it off, asked me to pick it up and feel it’s weight.”
“What about the daughter?”
“I found out she was in Mexico doing research. When I came to his place to tell him, I found you picking up his dead body.”
“And that’s it?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “But then it got weird. Turns out his daughter’s not really his daughter. And she’s not doing research in Mexico. She just wanted to get the fuck away. He was obsessed with her. Zavala did some pretty fucked-up shit. Maya just wanted out, so she bailed. Disappeared. Started her own life.”
“You think maybe she did it?”
I shook my head. Then I poured us a couple more shots. Nothing like a drunken cop. I smiled. “You know Michael Boseman?”
“The house you broke into …”
“Well, he was the fucker who started that Hollywood-Sarasota studio bullshit a few years back, remember that? The city gave him a few million in grant money, and he never did shit with it.”
“Yeah, I remember that. The county sued him, then he countersued.”
“That’s right.”
“So what does he have to do with Zavala?”
“It turns out Zavala’s non-daughter was dating him.”
“So you think he did it.”
I nodded. “That’s my hunch. He left his house shuttered the day after I came asking questions. Then, when you and that asshole Frey threatened me with pinning the murder on me—”
“I never said that.”
“Whatever.” This wasn’t so bad, coming clean to a cop who couldn’t arrest you even if he wanted. “The point is, I went to Mexico to look for this woman, Zavala’s daughter. And who do I fucking bump into? Boseman.”
He waved his hand left to right. “They’re in it together.”
“I don’t know. But Nick Zavala’s a sick motherfucker. Apparently he picked up runaway kids, twelve-, thirteen-, fifteen-year-olds. He took them in and took care of them, cleaned them up, gave them drugs. Had sex with them.”
“Tiffany Roberts.”
“They were all minors. Tiffany and Maya and who knows how many others.”
“That son of a bitch.”
“Amen.”
Petrillo tilted his head and squinted at me. “You went to Mexico?”
I smiled. “Nick paid me well.”
He shook his head. “But this guy, Boseman. Is he still in Mexico?”
“I don’t know. He was. Someone’s been in his house.”
“Who?”
“Fuck if I know. You arrested me, remember?”
“Jesus, lighten up, Vega.”
“I’ll lighten up when this shit’s over.”
“So how did you know someone was in the house?”
“Someone’s taking care of the mail. They took out the trash, parked the Jaguar in the garage.”
I served us another tequila. I could tell he was flying high. But he was thinking. He was trying to put the pieces together. I appreciated that. He took his drink in a shot and grimaced. Then he waved his index finger at me. “What about the motive?” he said.
“Because of Maya. How would you feel if you found out the girl you’re in love with had been kept as a sex slave for ten years? I think Boseman found out about Maya’s past, went crazy mad, and killed Nick for what he did to her.”
He nodded. “Makes sense.”
“But there’s another possibility: money.”
Petrillo perked up. “Money and love. The two deadly motives.”
“And self-defense.”
“That’s not a motive.”
“Zavala was rich, right?”
“And then some.”
“Who’s getting the money?”
He twirled his empty glass on the table like a top. Then he raised his half-closed eyes and pointed at me. “We’re looking into it. The old guy’d been through a handful of lawyers and had a very complicated will. They’re still sorting it out.”
“And his life insurance?”
He smiled and stood. He was a little wobbly on his way out. I stood in the front yard and watched him get in his car. “Two mil,” he said before backing out of the driveway. “And it’s all going to Maya Edwards.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE PHONE WOKE me up. It was John Blake. “Dexter?”
“What is it?”
“The license plate belongs to a 2017 Jaguar XJ registered to a Michael Jones Boseman.”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“I just thought it might belong to someone else.”
“Sorry, man. Anything else?”
“I don’t think so.”
I took a deep breath. I had fallen asleep early last night. I’d had no calls or messages from del Pino or Holly. To hell with del Pino, I expected that. But Holly? I was beginning to worry about that girl.
I put on Fleetwood Mac’s Then Play On, from 1969. It was the last album with Peter Green, and kind of broke my heart because it showed where the band could have gone with their music—that interesting limbo between blues and something else, something so new it didn’t exist. But it was also a good thinking album. I made a nice breakfast for Mimi and me—fried eggs, bacon, fried potatoes and onions with a generous squirt of Sriracha hot sauce. I served Mimi her dry cat food and put her plate on the table across from me. Nothing like the company of a cat. They don’t complain and they leave you alone so you can think.
Later, I sat down at the computer to work on my Maya document. I had to shift my pattern of thinking from finding Maya, to making sense of Boseman killing Nick. If I were a cop, I’d send someone to keep an eye on Boseman’s house. But I wasn’t a cop. I had no backup.
But I had Rachel.
“No way,” she said. “No. I can’t spend all day sitting in my car baking like a damn cake. I have to work.”
“When you’re not working.”
“I have like half a dozen assignments to set up in the next couple of days. I don’t even know what free time is, Dex.”
“Please.”
“Why don’t you do it? You don’t have a job.”
“That hurt.”
“Dex, don’t make me do this. It’s so boring. I don’t have the time.”
“Please, Rachel, just do me a favor. When you’re not working, swing by Point of Rocks and check out the house. I’ll do the same. If anyone goes in, let me know.”
We shared a long dry silence. Then she sighed. “You owe me, man. Big-time.”
“I do. I’ll get you a nice bottle of Fireball.”
“A case.”
We hung up. I stared at my document. Maya was getting the insurance money. I imagined she might also get the inheritance. Who else was there?
Maybe Boseman was in cahoots with her. They had been dating. She had been living with him. Anything was possible. I couldn’t allow my meeting with Maya and her syrupy charm blind me. She could be in it up to her ears. Shit. Maybe she conned Boseman. Maybe she had seduced him and set him up to do the deed. He kills Zavala, she inherits the money and splits. It was so obvious—maybe too damn obvious.
I had to find Nick’s lawyer and see who else was poised to get rich from Nick’s death.
I called Jason Kirkpatrick and left a message. I was sure he knew who was handling Nick’s affairs. Then I called Brian. Lucky me. The first lawyer in the history of lawyers to answer his phone.
“Why?” he said when I asked him about Nick’s lawyer.
“I want to know who’s inheriting his fortune.”
“I thought we were done with this,” he said. “I can’t keep bailing you out. I work. I have other clients. Come on.”
“Just ask around. See what you can find out. Please.”
We hung up. He could be so damn temperamental.
I put on another record, R.E.M.’s Murmur, and went about cleaning my house and putting things in order. An organized environment allows for organized thinking. Besides, there was nothing else to do. I had the feeling Petrillo was going to lay off my case for a while. He wanted to catch the real killer, and unless Nick Zavala put me in his last will and testament, I was off the hook.
I had to change gears. I had been neglecting my pathetic little freelance business. The money Nick had paid me was going to run out in two or three months. My severance was gone. I had to find health insurance, a job, some way to earn a buck.
I sat down and surfed the net, checking out the job sites. Sarasota had little to offer in terms of work. It was just a tourist spot for rich people and spring breakers. There were two shitty little papers and a couple of fluffy magazines. I hated to think about it this way, but if I wanted to stay in the journalism game, I was going to have to do a national job search. But there were layoffs everywhere—even the Times and the Post. No one was immune. I had a career that no longer existed. No one was going to hire me. I had to reinvent myself. I had to do something new.
I had three e-mails from the editor of Sarasota City Magazine. She wanted some details on my articles cleared up. I shot back with a few exaggerations, the kind of shit she wanted to hear so she could wrap up the issue, send it to print, and mail me my damn check.
I leaned back in my chair and looked at the picture of Zoe I had propped in the back of my desk. I had taken it last year when she was here for the summer. She looked cute. But I remembered the day. She’d been upset because I sent her to day camp while I went to work. I made a mental note to change things. For some reason it made me think of Maya and Tiffany. What they had probably been through. I made a promise to myself, to Zoe. I was going to be more involved in her life.
I picked up my phone and dialed her mother’s number. But I couldn’t bring myself to press send. What was I going to tell Zoe?
I set the phone down, pushed the guilt out of my mind. I had to finish the business at hand. I would call her later. And I would listen. I would sit there and hear all the stories she had from school and the neighborhood and her grandmother’s place. But first I had to sort this out.
One thing that kept plaguing me was Mexico. If that crazy Malcolm could make it as a freelance journalist, so could I. I could put my house up for rent, sell all my shit, and get down there. I could see Flor and freelance for national publications. Who knew? In Mexico the possibilities were endless. Maybe I could even search for my extended family. Or I could move back to Houston or San Antonio. Sure, I had ghosts all over Texas, but I’d be closer to Zoe. I’d become a part of her life.
There was nothing tying me to this place except the house. And Holly. Holly who hadn’t called me back in two days and who really might not even give two shits about me after all. I thought of our meetings at Caragiulos and here at home, her hands caressing my hair, her lips, red and shiny with that bright neon lipstick. I loved her lips. I needed to see what was going to happen with that before I could make a move. I wasn’t going to mess it up like I did three years ago. No more what-ifs.
But I was getting ahead of myself. I was getting neurotic—full blast neurotic. I could see a wide-open future but didn’t know which direction to take. This was the kind of shit that happened when I was idle, when I wasn’t elbow deep in an investigation of some kind. Idle time breeds mischief. It drove me to drink. I realized that now. When my mind wasn’t focused on something, I was dangerous. I could trip right into a bottle of booze. Careful, Dexter, I told myself, tread with care. Keep your head together.
I needed to get out of the house. I needed air. I needed to find Joaquin del Pino and learn about this nonprofit and whether Boseman was somehow connected to it.
I drove downtown to his office across the courthouse. It’s funny about lawyers. Everyone talks about how much money they make, and I know del Pino made out just fine cheating people out of half the money they were awarded in a lawsuit settlement. Things were fucked up that way—I guess that’s why insurance companies and lawyers are a breed unto themselves. But del Pino’s office was pretty humble and straightforward. He had a secretary, two paralegals, and a waiting room. Nothing fancy. The furniture was mahogany veneer, and the walls were lined with dark leather-bound law books.
I asked the secretary for del Pino.
“Yes, of course,” she said in a gentle tone. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Not really,” I said and glanced down the hall at one of the paralegals talking to someone who was out of my line of sight. “But I left a message yesterday.”
“Your name?”
The secretary didn’t seem to react to my name. She checked her calendar and a list of names on a book that I imagined were either the appointments or messages for the big-shot lawyer. Then she raised her eyes at me and said, “And when did you call?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
She shook her head as her fingers traced the names on the paper in front of her. I glanced to the side. The paralegal had vanished. The hallway was empty, the doors closed.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Vega. I don’t see anything here with your name on it,” she said. “Would you like to make an appointment?”
“Sure.” I smiled. “But where’s Mr. del Pino now?”
“He’s in court.”
“I see.”
“The first opening I have available is on the twenty-eighth.”
“That’s three weeks from now.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re very busy.”
“But in the commercials he says he’ll see us immediately, talk to us in person.”
“Were you in an accident?”
I thought of my entire life as one long continuous wreck. “Yes. Pretty bad. It was the other guy’s fault. The cops gave him two citations. I keep getting this pain in my lower back—”
“One moment,” she said and stood. “Let me speak with his paralegal and see if she can speak with you.”
“But the commercial said I’d get to speak with him. You know, Justice for All?”
She covered her mouth. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing at what I said, that I said it, or just about the stupid commercial. “Let me see if we can fit you in. Please wait a moment.”
She walked down the hallway and knocked on a door. I followed her. When the door opened, I peeked in. No del Pino. His paralegal didn’t seem to be bothered by my presence. I held my lower back and winced. The secretary explained my predicament. The paralegal smiled and said she could fit me in first thing in the morning.
“He wants to see Mr. del Pino,” the secretary explained. I nodded with a sorry and painful expression.
“I’m not sure he can,” the paralegal said. She was very pleasing and polite. I liked her right away. “But I’ll talk with him. If you come at seven thirty tomorrow morning, he might be able to duck in and see you before his other appointments.”