The Last Girl

by Danny Lopez

  This sounded vague enough to me. When I left del Pino’s office, I walked across the street to the county courthouse. I went through the metal detector in the lobby and asked the officers if they’d seen Mr. del Pino.

  “If he’s got court, he could be upstairs. I just started my shift,” the one officer said.

  I took the elevator, passed the next metal detector, and asked for del Pino. The three officers manning the metal detector conferred with each other. Then the female officer said, “He’s probably on the next floor. Civil court.”

  I went up to the next floor, passed the metal detector. Just then a door opened, and half a dozen people walked out of a courtroom, all in suits, all looking prim. One of them wore a neck brace and had an arm in a bandage. Leading the group was del Pino himself.

  “Mr. del Pino,” I said. They had come to where I was to take the elevator. “Can I have a word with you?”

  I’m sure he recognized me. “I’m with a client,” he said seriously. “Why don’t you stop by my office and make an appointment.”

  He was so goddamn proper I wanted to squeeze him to death. What Holly ever saw in this yahoo was beyond me. He was short and balding and had deep brown eyes that held no emotion whatsoever. He looked dead.

  The elevator opened and a few people, all suits, got off and del Pino and his gang got on. I jumped in with them, squeezed shoulder to shoulder. I smiled. “We’re like sardines,” I said.

  No one laughed.

  I addressed del Pino: “I saw you’re the director for BRAVO. You like to help abused children.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know Michael Boseman?”

  He shook his head. “Please. This is not the time. I’m with a client.”

  “I know,” I said. “But this will only take a second.”

  “I don’t know Mr. Boseman. Not that I can recollect.”

  “I’m sure you know him. He was at a fund-raiser for your charity at the Ritz-Carlton in February. Does it ring a bell?”

  Del Pino smiled nervously and looked away from his client and then up at the numbers on the elevator. The descent was slow. But I was sure it was moving a lot slower for him.

  “Of course, I remember the fund-raiser. But I met a lot of people that night. If you make an appointment, I’m sure we can—”

  “So it’s going pretty well?”

  “The charity?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a lot of work. Not many people know about the abuse these kids suffer.”

  “What about Mike Boseman?”

  The elevator doors opened, and we stepped out to the lobby. I kept pace beside del Pino and his clients. “He was a big shot in town,” I said. “He was going to bring Hollywood to Sarasota. Remember that?”

  He shook his head. One of his clients looked at me. “I remember that guy.”

  “There you go,” I said. “So, he was at your fund-raiser. And Maya Zavala or Edwards. Do those names ring a bell?”

  “Maybe,” del Pino said. “Were you there?”

  “Unfortunately, I missed that one.” We walked out of the building. We were standing on the sidewalk waiting for the light to change so we could cross and go to the parking lot or to del Pino’s office. “But there’s a great picture. Came out in the social pages of The Sara-Scene Magazine. You know it?”

  He didn’t answer. The light changed. We walked together.

  “In the photo you’re talking to him. You and Boseman,” I said. “Or maybe I should ask Holly.”

  He stopped walking and turned to face me. “Is that what this is about? Holly?”

  “No, no. I’m over all that. Are you?” I had hit a nerve. When someone falls into that space that’s full of emotion—that middle ground of fear—they can misstep.

  “Listen to me, Mr. Vega.” He waved his finger, his face red and moist with sweat. “You cannot accost me this way, in front of my clients, and accuse me of anything.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m only asking if you know these people.”

  “I told you I do not know them. I do not know any Boseman or Maya whatever the last name was. I don’t. If they were at my fundraiser, that was their choice. I don’t know them. I do not know them.”

  And like that he turned and marched off with his client and their small entourage. Well, he had given me something. He repeated that he did not know them—five times. A long time ago I learned that if someone repeats something, they’re probably lying.

  I got in my Subaru and drove back down to Siesta Key. I figured I might as well keep an eye on Boseman’s house. I parked across the street in a tiny patch of shade offered by a sea grape tree in the neighbor’s yard. It was a long shot. Everything was a long shot. If del Pino wasn’t willing to tell the truth, then I couldn’t count on what he really knew. He was a pro. I couldn’t force it out of him.

  I was out of leads. And as long as the case stayed open, I was a suspect in the eyes of Frey and the Sarasota PD. I didn’t want to go to prison. But it was more than that. I believed in doing the right thing. Zavala and Boseman and del Pino, they represented everything that was wrong with the world. They took advantage of people. They were greedy rats.

  I sat sweltering in the car despite the shade. I checked Facebook on my iPhone. Flor was moving her team to a new canal in Xochimilco. She posted a few photos. She wore the wet suit without the mask. Her hair was wet, her eyes focusing on the camera lens—determined and proud. She was surrounded by her team. It was great to have a purpose in life, something worth fighting for. When I was a journalist, I’d had the same excitement. I believed. But my drive to fix the problems of the world was fading fast. I turned on Pandora and listened to some old jazz and stared at Boseman’s place. Between the houses I could see an occasional beachgoer climbing through the rocks to get to the other side of the beach. Paradise. But even paradise had its problems. The world was one big problem. I kept telling myself it wasn’t my job to solve it. I needed to accept things for what they were. I envied the people who were content living in a cubicle in some office, pushing papers or entering data into a computer. Work was work, and time out of work was time out of work. They didn’t obsess about the shit I obsessed with. Living with my brain was exhausting.

  I wished I were back in Mexico. I could be with Flor right now, helping her look for the axolotl. But Mexico had problems. Big fucking problems. How could I complain? I swallowed my anger and let it go. Life was not easy.

  After an hour or so I decided to call Holly. This time she answered.

  “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for three days,” I said.

  “Hey, now.” Her tone went from soft, to professional, to downright nasty. “Don’t you talk to me that way, Dexter. I’ve been busy. I work. I have responsibilities.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “You don’t have exclusive rights over me.”

  “I apologize.” I took a deep breath, eased up. “I was worried. I thought something happened.”

  “Well, I have a huge caseload I need to deal with,” she said. “This is really not a good time.”

  “I need to talk with you. It’s important.”

  “So’s my work, Dexter. It’s going to have to wait.”

  Damn. She wasn’t even calling me Dex. In a strange way it reminded me of del Pino’s pissy attitude when I asked him about Boseman. What was it about lawyers?

  I didn’t want to ruin my chances with Holly. I needed to take it easy. I knew I had a tendency to rush people, corner them. I could be obsessive and that pissed people off.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m sorry. I guess we’re both under a lot of stress. Can we meet for drinks later tonight?”

  She sighed. “That would be nice.”

  “How about Caragiulos?”

  “No, no. Let’s go somewhere far from downtown. I need a break from this place.”

  “Shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “I forgot.” Brian Farinas. I hav
e to meet him at Shakespeare’s pub tonight. “I made an appointment.”

  “Oh, Dex. Not tonight.”

  “Let me see if I can get out of it,” I said. “I’ll call you in a bit.”

  “I’m meeting with a client in five. Text me, or call me later. After seven.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BRIAN WOULDN’T LET me off the hook. He was a busy lawyer and had made time for me so we could have a couple of beers at Shakespeare’s and discuss my case. I texted Holly and apologized—offered her a rain check. Then I drove out to our little English-style pub in a strip mall just off Siesta Key.

  I took a table in the back. It was dark, secluded. There was a good crowd, and it took me a while to get a pint of Guinness. Not very imaginative, but it was really what I was craving, something heavy and smooth.

  About fifteen minutes later, Brian showed up, a bottle of Holy Grail Ale in his hand. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” I raised my beer. “I’ve been here.”

  He sat down and didn’t waste any time. “So they might be willing to drop the breaking and entering charges if they don’t hear from Boseman. But the child porn in your computer is another matter. You need a solid alibi for that one. Otherwise you’re going to see some serious time.”

  “I will.”

  “That new detective, Dominic Frey, is really making a big stink over you. He says you’re guilty and everyone’s sabotaging his hard work.” Brian took a long pull of his beer. “What’d you do to piss that fucker off?”

  “I’m not sure.” I stared at my glass. The foam of the Guinness was so smooth and brown like the crème of the cappuccino I had outside Flor’s apartment. I missed Mexico. I missed Flor.

  “Well, let’s not worry about that now,” he said. “Frey needs to convince Chief Miller and the State Attorney’s office that he has a solid case. They’re taking it slow because they want this thing to stick, use the child porn to hook you to the murder, which leads me to ask, how are we with that thing?”

  “Not so good.”

  “I don’t know how you get mixed up with these people: Zavala, Boseman, Frey.”

  “I’m unemployed.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  I shrugged. “Anything on the inheritance?”

  “Right.” Brian took a long swig of beer. “You’re not going to believe it.”

  “What?”

  “Justice for All.”

  “What?”

  He nodded, a wide smile on his face. “Joaquin del Pino is the official executor of the will. He’s Zavala’s lawyer. Well, one of his lawyers. But he wrote the will.”

  “But he’s a fucking accident lawyer, not a contract lawyer.”

  Brian shrugged. “One-man band. You pay it, he’ll do it. I do all kinds of shit. Look at me now, talking to you and drinking beer.”

  “That requires some serious talent.”

  He took another long pull at the bottle, his eyes on mine. “Indeed it does.”

  “Did he tell you who’s getting the money?”

  Brian shook his head. “I made the inquiry. They should be getting back to me tomorrow.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Isn’t that like a conflict of interest?”

  “I’m off duty.”

  “No, for del Pino.”

  Brian grinned. “I’m a criminal lawyer, but I do divorce and accident cases if it pays.”

  “But you don’t do contracts.”

  “I could if I wanted to.”

  “Some profession,” I said. “Where are the ethics?”

  “Sarasota’s a small town full of lawyers. It’s dog-eat-dog out there.”

  “You sound like Rachel.”

  “Rachel who?”

  “A friend. A photographer. She does it all.”

  “It ain’t easy, my friend.”

  I went to the bar and got another round, only this time I had a Belhaven Ale. I ordered another Holy Grail for Brian and came back to the table.

  He stared at my beer. “How come you didn’t get me one of those?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “Some friend.”

  “So here’s something weird,” I said. “I found out del Pino is the director of a nonprofit that helps abused children.”

  “What’s so weird about that?”

  “He holds Zavala’s will. Zavala was a pedophile. And he has a charity that helps Zavala’s victims. Weird, no?”

  “I guess. But maybe del Pino didn’t know about Zavala’s nasty perversions.”

  I shook my head. “Or he would have gone to the cops.”

  “In theory.”

  Brian had a good point. The thing that got me was that the thread of possibilities—of who might be guilty of killing Zavala—was getting longer. What had seemed obvious early on was getting murkier by the minute. I thought of the axolotl in the canals of Xochimilco and what Flor had told me once, that the deeper she went in the water, into the places where the axolotl was more likely to dwell, the more difficult it became to see clearly. The same was happening to me and my pathetic search for Nick Zavala’s murderer.

  “Let me ask you this.” Brian pushed his chair back and stretched his legs. “Why are you still investigating the Zavala murder?”

  I looked down at my beer, at the coaster on the table. Budweiser. Why do they have Budweiser coasters in the pub? Why was I still all jacked up on this bullshit?

  “I think you need to let it go,” Brian said quietly. “Let the cops figure it out. I’ll get you clear of the two charges. You’ll be good.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t.” I raised my eyes and traced the tiredness in his eyes. “It’s eating me in here.” I tapped my chest. “I have no job, Brian. I need something to do. And I feel like I have the answer to this thing on the tip of my tongue. I can’t just let it go. I want to know. Shit. I have to know.”

  “You’d never make a good lawyer.”

  I laughed. “Neither would you.”

  We raised our bottles, the bottom of them touching gently in a friendly toast: “To the good guys.”

  We drank a couple more beers. This time Brian had a Belhaven and I had a Black and Tan. I thought of all the evenings Brian and I had stayed up sifting through documents I’d gotten on the Sarasota PD through the Freedom of Information Act and from a couple of inside sources. We went over every line together, trying to find the bad apples, making a spreadsheet of the times they had used excessive force or charged an innocent person, shot the wrong perpetrator. It was a lot of work—tedious and detailed and time consuming. And Brian was getting nothing out of it. I might get an award. I got my paycheck. But all he got was the satisfaction that we were doing the right thing for the people of Sarasota.

  And in the end, after all that work and exposing the department of multiple wrongdoings, the voters went to the polls and did absolutely nothing. Brian and I got so drunk after that. The city government refused to implement any changes to the department. It had all been a waste of time. We still had the same idiots in charge. The citizens of Sarasota preferred an arrogant and abusive police force. Sad. They deserved what they got.

  We had dinner at the pub. I had a hamburger with caramelized onions and brie. Brian had the special, braised lamb shank. Just another night in our lives, so much like all the others, fighting the same useless battles, trying to figure ourselves out as much as we were trying to figure out the rest of the goddamn world.

  Later, as I drove home, I thought about checking out Zavala’s house or going to Point of Rocks. But it was useless. What was the point?

  I went home, parked in my driveway, and walked to the front door. Holly was sitting alone on the front porch.

  “Damn!” I hopped back. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  She stood and put her arms around me and kissed me on the mouth like an old lover. She pushed back and looked at the side of my face. “What happened?”

  I smiled. “Long story.”

  “Jesus.”
She stared into my eyes, studied the cut on my cheek, my ear, my face. Then she rested the side of her face against my chest and sighed. “I am so tired, Dex.”

  “Let’s go inside,” I said and opened the door. “I’m sorry about the dark porch. The bulb blew when I was in Mexico. I haven’t had time to change it.”

  Mimi came to us, rubbing against our ankles. Holly picked her up and held her to her face. Holly had been with me when I adopted Mimi from the pound. I had been doing a story for the paper on the Humane Society’s mobile adoption truck and kind of fell in love with the cat—just as I had fallen in love with Holly.

  “Would you like a drink?” I said.

  “You have wine?”

  “Beer or tequila,” I said and went into the kitchen.

  “God, Dex. You haven’t changed.”

  “Is that a beer?”

  “Might as well.”

  I opened a Big Top and served myself a tequila. We sat on the couch. Holly flicked her shoes off and folded her legs under her. “It’s been a long, crazy month.”

  She was wearing a colorful sundress, something I imagined her wearing out to the farmer’s market on Saturday morning. She looked so good, fresh, beautiful—and tired. Her hair smelled great, and she had very little makeup, and glorious bright red lipstick that matched the red hibiscus flowers in her dress.

  “You’re telling me.” I ran my hand along her arm to her shoulder. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “You working on a case?” I asked.

  She laughed. “If it was only that. I’m in the process of moving my things out of Joaquin’s place, and he’s being difficult.”

  “He doesn’t want you to leave?”

  “I don’t know what he wants. He’s just being a jerk about it.”

  I wanted to tell her I had seen her ex-boyfriend, that I was curious about his relationship with Zavala and Boseman. I wanted to ask her if she’d been at the charity fund-raiser at the Ritz. She would know if Boseman was friends with del Pino. But I said nothing. It didn’t seem like the time to bring it up and spoil the moment. I had learned my lesson well. My obsessions were not the obsessions of others. They turned people off, drove them away. If I wanted to be with Holly, I needed to back off. Like Rachel had said, don’t crowd a woman like Holly.