Dan let out a slow breath, and Sandy glanced at him as if reading his thoughts.
Rick said, “Come on, guys. He’s legit. Being in the entertainment field, Victor wants his own label. People do it all the time. He wants to start his label here, not so much competition as New York. So Victor comes to Coral Rock one day. We have lunch. He says he heard about the band, heard they were hot, and he wants to record them and distribute the CD’s. I say, no thanks, we’re going for a deal with a major label. And he goes, okay, that’s cool. Let us do your demo. If the band gets signed, we can work a deal with Capitol or Atlantic or whatever, or at the very least get some good publicity. I go, no, this demo has to be done right. I mean, perfect quality. We need super-experienced people. He says no problem, talk to our engineer. And I did. I talked to Willy Silva. I checked his credentials. I listened to some of his mixes, and they blew me away.”
Rick laughed, “Dan, undercover cops do not go to this much trouble. It would’ve cost—Jesus, the equipment alone! Cops don’t have recording equipment like that around.”
“They could rent it,” Dan said. “But I doubt Ramirez is with North Miami or Metro-Dade. I’m thinking he’s a federal agent, and his credentials are forged, or else he tells a damned good story.”
Sandy stifled a gasp with her fingertips. Dan glanced at her, then said, “I’ll tell you where I saw Ramirez—the man who could be Ramirez. Going into the apartment of a friend of mine, an assistant U.S. attorney. That’s federal, Rick. FBI, DEA, Customs—It could be that Manatee Studios is a front. A sting operation, but I don’t know what they’re after.”
For a second Rick sat there as if somebody had dipped him in concrete. Finally he said, “What … does this mean, exactly?”
Dan said, “Did Ramirez tell you he owns the building?”
“No. He just rents space there, a couple of the studio rooms, including the one we’re using for the demo tape.”
Dan tapped his fingers on his knees. “Is it possible there are any deals going down on the premises? You notice people coming and going who might not belong there?”
“Deals?”
“Drug deals, Rick. Narcotics? Cocaine? Are you with me?”
“I—I don’t—It’s possible, I guess.”
Sandy was staring at Rick, not saying anything.
Rick said, “No. Uh-uh. Wait a minute, now. I’m trying to think. We’ve got the IRS off our back. I keep my nose clean. If Victor is DEA—let’s say he is, for the hell of it—why would he look at me? I didn’t do anything. I mean, I don’t hang out with drug dealers. I don’t involve myself with that. It’s suicide.”
Dan didn’t like that answer. He closed in. “Who do you know, Rick? Who do you know that the feds would be interested in?”
“I know tons of people. And yeah, some of them are shady, but it’s not something we chat about over cocktails, you understand? It doesn’t come up.”
“Which of them are involved with Manatee Studios?” Dan waited, then said, “Only the band, right?”
“Mayhem? Oh, no way. I know these people,” Rick said. “Right, Sandy? They do music, that’s all. Okay, they might smoke a little dope, but deal?” He laughed.
“I heard today,” Dan said, “that Leon Davila went back to Ecuador. Do you have any information on that?”
“He didn’t say anything to me. I don’t care, I didn’t like him. And they put Arlo Pate in there so fast, it didn’t matter. See, Dan, artists are notoriously unreliable. Like our bassist. He split for Atlanta. They get better offers, they go.”
“What about the new bassist?”
“Scott Irwin. He was interning with me before I met Ramirez. He’s a student at the local broadcasting college. And Kelly Dorff? You know her better than I do, so you answer that one. Arlo Pate—He’s a strange dude, but I can’t see the feds after him. Martha? Never. She’s too smart to fall into that life. All she wants is a record contract.”
Dan said, “What about Miguel Salazar?”
“Oh, no. No way. He’s fine.”
“You think so? I was over at his place in Lakewood this morning. Martha said something he disagreed with, and he hit her.”
“He hit Martha?” Rick sucked in a breath. “Oh, man. Is she okay?”
“Sure, except she won’t leave the SOB.”
“Well, no. She can’t. We talked about it. First the concert, then she’ll be okay. Man, I knew she was having problems, but—He hit her?”
“Salazar gives me the creeps, Rick. I think he may be the one they’re looking at.”
Sandy reached out a hand, grabbing Rick’s arm. “Darlin’?”
Rick ignored her. “Salazar’s got a company in Miami, and he bankrolls the band. If he’s doing something else in his spare time, I don’t know about it. Dan, I think you’re making too much out of this.” Rick finally looked down at Sandy, who was tapping his arm. “What?”
Sandy stood up on her knees. “Last night when Kelly was so upset, crying and all? Before you came in to see about her, she was going on and on, and I didn’t pay much attention, but she said she had been arrested with a kilo of heroin, and how it started everything. Did she ever tell you about that?” She looked from Rick to Dan.
“Heroin?” Rick threw himself back in his chair, arms dangling over the sides. “Oh, what next? Take me now, God.”
“I didn’t know either,” Dan said. “She never said anything about it. When was this? Was the case dismissed for some reason?”
“I didn’t ask her, she was bawlin’ so hard. I got her calmed down, then she didn’t say another word.”
“What did she mean, ‘It started everything’?”
“Hon, I don’t know any more’n you do, but we could ask her.”
“Rick, did you ever see Kelly with any dopers? Don’t tell me you don’t know who they are,” he said. “In this business you know.”
“When she was with her prior band, Black Mango, their manager was connected.” Rick stared at the ceiling. “Out of Philadelphia, I think. He was arrested in that raid down in Coconut Grove. That was when that other guy, the one from Ecuador, shot it out with the cops. Who was that? You know, the one you lost your job over.”
“Luis Barrios.”
“Right. Black Mango’s manager was arrested along with a bunch of other people in that raid, then convicted of big-time cocaine trafficking. I knew Kelly at the time, and I’d met Martha and Leon, who were also in the band, but I wasn’t their manager till later.”
Rick sat up. “Wait a minute. We might be getting our shorts twisted up for nothing. You asked me if Kelly could be dealing? No way. She used to do coke on a fairly regular basis, but not lately. I haven’t seen it, and I’ve had every opportunity to see it, believe me.”
Smiling now, Rick smoothed his hair. “You don’t know it was Ramirez you saw. You saw some guy with a beard, about the same age, same build.” He stood up, and Dan followed him with his eyes. “Right? Is that what you saw? Is that what you got me out of bed to tell me?”
Dan said, “I could be wrong. As I say, I only caught a glimpse of the man.”
“Oh, jeez—” Rick buried his face in his hands for a second, then threw them into the air. He grabbed Dan and kissed his cheek. “Dan, I love you, but you’re full of shit. Now get out of here, will you?” He waggled his fingers at Sandy, motioning her to get up. “Beddy-bye.”
“Rick.” There was an edge to Dan’s voice.
“What?”
“I’m going to give you some advice, okay? Legal advice. Right here in front of your wife, so you can’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you. You’re not playing straight with me. We both know it. Whatever is going on with you, you’d better tell me now—as your lawyer—because later on it could be too late.” Dan was speaking slowly, each word like the ringing of a low, muffled bell. “Do not screw around with the feds. If you do, they will send you to prison for the rest of your life on principle.”
Rick made a little laugh, looking at Dan, then at Sandy.
He said to her, “I think he’s going mental on us. He sees a guy, and all of a sudden I’m dealing coke.”
“I’m trying to help you, dammit.”
Rick pointed his finger at Dan. “I’m sorry I ever asked you to take Martha’s case. I was doing you a favor, pal, because my sister asked me to. I shoulda got some ambulance chaser down on the Boulevard, wouldn’t think he was God’s gift to the fuckin’ American justice system.”
Dan pressed the heels of his hands together to keep from shoving Rick into the wall. “Okay. Fine. Tell you what. The U.S. marshals show up, call somebody else. I’ve had it with you.”
“I haven’t done anything!”
A low wail came from over by the chair, where Sandy still sat on the footstool. “Rick?” She was shaking. “Please don’t do this.”
Dan put his hands on his hips. “Tell her about Salazar.”
“Oh, for the love of God.”
“Tell her.”
“I borrowed money from Miguel Salazar. So what! If that makes me a goddamn criminal—if that makes me connected to whatever the hell he’s doing, and I don’t know what the guy’s doing—then I plead guilty.”
Sandy stared up at him. “How much?”
“A hundred thousand.”
“Why, Rick?”
He only shook his head.
“Why?”
“Because … you wanted a new car and the furniture—”
“You’re blaming me, you son of a bitch?”
“—and I couldn’t get it for you. The business was off this year. I didn’t want you to know how far off. And I didn’t want … to lose you.” Rick’s voice was shaking. He was on the edge and going over. “I’ll pay him back. He’s being good about it. I gotta get this demo done. Then we’ll have the concert. It’s gonna be okay. I promise you, it will.”
“Dammit, Rick!” She threw herself at him, and he stumbled backward. “What have you done? I knew it. I knew it!” She was screaming now, hitting him.
Rick had his hands up. “Stop it! Sandy!” He moved away, grabbed a pillow off the sofa, and hit her with it. She came in low and punched him in his belly. Rick sat down hard on the sofa, his robe falling off one shoulder. Dan pulled her off him. She screamed once more, then silence fell. Rick patted down his hair with a shaking hand. He wiped some blood off his nose with the belt of his robe, then got up and retied it.
She sat down in a chair and closed her eyes. “How much am I supposed to take, Lord?”
“Sandy?”
“I can’t stand it anymore. I’m out of here.”
“Don’t leave me, pumpkin.”
“I damn sure will. I’m going back to Georgia. You’re making me old real fast.”
“No. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.” He got down on his knees. “Please, Sandy. I’ll pay him back, as soon as the band gets a contract—”
“Soon as the pope sprouts horns.”
“I’m begging you. Please, baby. Give me another chance. Don’t leave.”
“You said that last time too, and I stayed, and now look!”
“I love you so much. Oh, God. Please don’t leave me. I wouldn’t have a reason to go on. I’d kill myself, I swear. Sandy, you’re all I live for. Don’t go. Please. Please don’t.”
His face was buried in her lap, muffling his words. His shoulders shook. Tentatively at first, Sandy touched the back of his head, the wisps of hair curling between her fingers. “You dumbass little peckerhead.”
Dan said quietly that he would let himself out.
A kilo of heroin. A kilo. Not a few grams but 2.2 pounds of the stuff. Dan knew the penalty in federal court. Ten years minimum mandatory. Kelly Dorff had been arrested—but not convicted. And she had never mentioned it.
Dan stopped for gas and stared at the pump until he remembered that he had already heard it click off a couple of minutes ago. He got back on the interstate, heading south. He overshot the exit to Biscayne Boulevard and kept going past downtown, finally getting off near Coral Gables.
He drove past Elaine McHale’s building, a quiet street with a park on the other side. There was a light on. Her car was there, a small Ford sedan. Driving past again, he checked all the other cars, not finding a dark blue Chevy Caprice among them.
Cursing, barely moving his lips, he parked and walked up the sidewalk to her porch. The bags of trash were gone. Light leaked from around mini-blinds at the window. He leaned on the buzzer. Nothing. Pressed it again. Put his ear to the crack. Not a sound.
He slammed his fist on the door, then walked back to his car. As he drove away, he realized how stupid he’d been, coming here. She wasn’t a friend, she was a federal prosecutor. He breathed deeply to quell the shakes.
CHAPTER 22
The dense banyan tree outside Dan’s apartment cast such a shadow that Dan had asked the landlord to install a sensor on the porch light. It went on at sunset, off at dawn. It had failed to work a few times, so Dan was not particularly surprised when he found his front entrance dark. It was an old building; something was always breaking.
He came in, closed the door, and flipped the switch on the wall. The lamp did not come on. He assumed the bulb had burned out. He could barely see his way inside. A gray rectangle marked the front windows, and the shapes of furniture—sofa, chair, a curve of lamp shade—were barely visible. There was a glint of light on the TV screen. The place occupied by the aquarium was dark and oddly silent without the usual watery bubble of the aerator.
Power failure, he thought. Then noticed a soft blue glow reflected on the wall toward the kitchen—the digital clock on the microwave. In the same instant he saw the tiny amber screen on his stereo: 11:08.
And then a soft tick, a shift.
He froze. It was completely dark where he stood. Nothing short of night-vision lenses could see him. He stood motionless, listening.
Another tick, an odd noise he could not place. Not from outside. Not next door or overhead. Someone else was here in his apartment.
He thought of going quickly back outside, but he had already turned the dead bolt, and he was several steps away from the door. If he moved, he would give away his position.
It had to be a kid from the neighborhood, someone as scared as he was, scoping out the electronic equipment. There wasn’t much Dan valued except for his dive equipment, worth several thousand dollars—tanks, regulators, spearguns, underwater camera. He kept it in a corner of the living room near the hall.
Dan didn’t breathe, didn’t move. He heard the shush of tires on the street. The distant overhead grumble of a jet. Faint voices through the walls.
Then the soft tick again. And another. Dan tilted his ear toward the sound. It came from the area near his aquarium. He let out his breath. It was the fish, his blue neon gobys. They were opening their mouths at the surface. He usually fed them when he got home. The little guys were hungry.
He felt foolish. He had imagined Miguel Salazar waiting to grab him and stick a knife through his ribs.
The power was off because a circuit breaker had flipped. That had happened before. He decided to turn on the lights in the kitchen and take a look at the breaker panel. Dan started carefully across the living room, hands in front of him, when he wondered why, if the circuit breaker had flipped, the stereo lights were on. The aquarium was off, and they were plugged into the same outlet.
He stepped in water. He could hear the splash under his rubber-soled shoe. Then his foot shoved something across the wood floor. He bent down, groping for a second before his fingers closed around a thin metallic cylinder. A speargun, his short one with the two-foot barrel. The heavy rubber tubing was loose, hanging free. The nylon cord had played out. The spear was gone; the thing had been fired.
A wave of heat swept over his body, then icy sweat. He let the gun down again quietly, carefully. Eyes adjusted now to the darkness, he could see the outline of the doorway to the kitchen. He stood up and felt his way, then fumbled for the light switch on the wall.
The blaze of fluorescent tubes overhead half blinded him. He waited, hearing nothing, then looked around the corner. Past the armchair he could see into the living room. An overturned lamp. The metal stand for his aquarium on its side, the glass smashed. Water, sand, seaweed. Bits of bright blue—his dead fish. A piece of white coral shaped like fingers. In the next instant he recalled there had been no coral in the tank. He walked around his chair, able to see it now. Not coral. A hand, outflung. A sleeve, blue denim. Long blond hair.
He ran across the room and dropped beside her. His knee skidded on the bloody floor. He felt a sharp jab of pain.
“Kelly!” He pulled her upright. Her head lolled back, then fell forward. He felt the wetness on his hands. Her white T-shirt was soaked with blood. A line of it was drying on her cheek, running from her mouth. The light glimmered in her half-closed eyes.
The homicide detective sat across the kitchen table from Dan, writing in a small spiral notebook.
Dan had given him her name. Had told him who she was. Where she was living. Had lived. Dan suggested that he contact Martha Cruz and Rick Robbins. Dan explained that Rick was the manager for Kelly’s band, Mayhem, and Martha was her best friend. Gonzalez wrote down their numbers.
Slumped in his chair, Dan leaned his head against the wall. He had washed his arms and legs. There was a bandage around his knee. The paramedics had pulled out a piece of broken glass from the aquarium. The police had wanted his clothes, and he had changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. There were still smears of blood on the telephone. Dialing 911, he had known it was too late to save her. The spear had gone completely through, entering just under the sternum, nicking her spine on its way out. The medical examiner had just left. Dan had not seen the examination of the body, but he had watched the gurney wheeled out the front door. In front of the building, crime scene tape ran from streetlight to tree to a series of folding wooden barricades, outlining a twenty-foot-wide corridor from the street to Dan’s front porch, keeping back the few onlookers about at this hour. The backyard was similarly cordoned off. Crime-scene techs were now taking more photographs and dusting for prints.
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