by David Sayre
He got back in his car and drove along 40th until he reached the Palmetto expressway on-ramp and took it to I-95, where he exited to Downtown Miami. After a few blocks he turned into the lot at the corner of northwest 5th street and 2nd avenue. He parked and walked towards the building and took the elevator up to the floor where the Missing Persons Unit was located at the Miami Police Department's headquarters.
Detective Vasco Arencibia had a half-eaten cinnamon raisin bagel with a smear of cream cheese sitting on a napkin on his desk. He had the phone receiver to his ear and he looked tired. He saw Sheen approach and his expression was that of a man who didn't need another thing piled on his table today. Nevertheless he waved Sheen over and pointed to a seat in front of his desk. Sheen sat as Arencibia continued his phone call.
"I understand that, but we have a policy and quite frankly the storm has disrupted a lot of our day to day. Many people are missing . . ." Arencibia listened for a few moments, exasperated. "I know, sir . . . Yes, I know that. Okay I will call you back as soon as I have anything. Thank you. Bye bye."
He hung up the phone and looked across at Sheen, shook his head and said, "What a week, I'll tell you."
"Busy?" Sheen asked.
"Doesn't even begin to cover it."
"The storm got you guys working around the clock?"
"We've got so many things going on I can't keep them all straight. We're awash in missing people since the hurricane. No pun intended. Not to mention that our asses have been out to dry since that shooting on Flagler and first."
"Oh, I heard about that. Few days ago, something at a cafetería. What's that all about?"
Arencibia shook his head. "All the facts aren't in yet. A lot of fuzzy information about drugs, maybe more. I don't know. Two officers down and IID is scratching their asses. No one seems to know who was there and why. And every department gets leaned on when this shit comes down."
"I would imagine."
"And you need a favor, right? You're gonna walk in here, see my plate is full and slop some more shit on it."
"I need to know what you've got on a missing persons report for Eladio Calderon. I know you're swamped, I'm sorry. But if you can tell me anything I'd appreciate it."
"How long ago are we talking?"
"Just the last few days, since the storm."
Arencibia sighed, and then nodded his head as he stood. "Give me a sec, okay?" Arencibia sifted through his desk drawer and pulled out the recent files he'd had on his desk.
Sheen had known Vasco Arencibia for a few years. They had struck up a friendship based on a common interest on a case both worked on simultaneously. Since then, whenever Sheen had been hired to find someone that was missing, his first step was to reach out to the police and see what they'd found. And his first visit was always to Arencibia's desk.
"Okay. Calderon, Eladio," the detective stated as he looked at the file he'd just unearthed from a pile that needed two hands to carry. "This was very recent."
"Yeah."
Arencibia skimmed the page in front of him. "Not much to go on. There's a residence listed. An apartment near Little Havana."
Sheen leaned forward and Arencibia shifted the file towards him to let Sheen read the address. Sheen checked with his notes and confirmed, "Yeah. That's the same address I have."
"No workplace listed. No other contact information."
"I've got a pager number, you want it?" Sheen said.
"Really? Sure, I'll take it." Arencibia wrote the pager number on the report sheet.
"That leads you to him . . ." Sheen added.
Arencibia finished the thought, "Yeah and I'll let the mother know you gave us the information. Same courtesy as always, Delmon."
"So that file looks pretty empty. You guys aren't any further along than me."
"Like I said. With everything going on, the storm, this shooting bullshit . . . I'm amazed anyone gets found right now. Trust me, I can show you dozens more just like this kid since Andrew."
"I don't doubt it. Well thanks for trying."
"Not a problem."
Sheen left the department as empty of a lead on the case as when he'd walked in. He decided he would drive out to Eladio's apartment.
He wanted to know more about the young man. His mother's opinion of him could only be so reliable. What did she know about his life outside of the love a mother has for a son? Could he do any wrong in her eyes? All these things kept pointing back to the one question that Sheen constantly wondered.
Is Eladio Calderon missing because of the storm, or was he already missing?
Sheen wondered about the teen's work. About his friends and colleagues, if he had any. He had to keep his mind open to the possibility that Eladio had run off, been in hiding or even been taken away for reasons other than Hurricane Andrew.
He also couldn't honestly and properly do his job if he didn't hypothesize one other question.
Was Eladio Calderon dead?
✽✽✽
When he arrived at the apartment building on southwest 13th avenue, he drove to a parking space in front of the door marked #9. He stepped out of his car and walked up to the door. He felt it was a foolish attempt, but knocked on the door anyway. As suspected, it was futile to try.
The apartment was on the end of the row and therefore had side windows in addition to the two sets of three awning windows at the front of the apartment. The windows on the side were also awning style but there was only one per opening, two of which sat a few feet apart.
Sheen inspected the windows, attempted to look inside, but could see nothing past the vertical blinds. Upon second glance at the front windows, he noticed that curtains were drawn closed to prevent anyone from looking into the empty apartment. For a moment, Sheen considered picking the lock, but thought better of it. Especially in the middle of the day. He did look around the porch to see if there was any obvious place that Eladio may have hidden a key. The only place he thought possible was above the door frame, but a running of his hand along the top produced nothing.
Having no other options for the moment, Sheen got into his Alfa and drove away.
✽✽✽
"What'd you find out about Cachorrro?" T-Dub asked.
He sat on a barstool next to Vernell. They each had a lunch basket of sandwiches and fries in front of them on the high top counter of The Monarch Diner. The diner was a neighborhood landmark that had been in business since the heyday of Overtown and still served breakfast, lunch and dinner on 2nd avenue. The fish sandwich was snapper breaded in crushed saltine crackers, fried and placed on sourdough toast. It was the lunchtime favorite for many locals and on this day T-Dub and his right hand man each enjoyed one.
"I got nothin' for you yet, boss," Vernell admitted as he chewed on a couple fries.
"And what about that skinny friend of his, used to hang with him and Gameboy?"
"Diego," Vernell offered. Then he shook his head, disappointed but honest.
"Damn, man! How do you come to me with nothing?"
"They in the wind, T! What you want me to do?"
T-Dub exhaled through his nostrils, frustrated. He took a sip of his soda and had another bite of the fish sandwich. He asked, "You know where these boys live at?"
"I don't know 'bout Diego. But Cachorro got a place over East Little Havana."
"You been over there?"
"Yeah, I checked in on it at first when he didn't answer his beeper."
T-Dub nodded. "Check again. You think you can get in there without an invitation?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Alright. Do that then."
"It's done."
Vernell put a few more fries into his mouth and chewed.
Later he drove his dark blue, 1990 Mustang to Cachorro's 13th avenue apartment. When he arrived he was surprised to see a man of indeterminate race on the front porch. Vernell didn't think the man was Hispanic. Maybe he was a light-skinned black man, but it was hard for Vernell to determine from the unconventional features.
He watched the car turn the corner, then got out of his vehicle and walked up to the apartment. He quickly but thoroughly looked around the area, then pulled out his torsion wrench and rake pick and went to work on the lock.
✽✽✽
Allen Tisdale lived in a luxury condominium in Coral Gables. It was furnished with all the latest, fashionable design furniture and painted to reflect a modern elegance. He wasn't married, but he had an on again-off again romance with a tax attorney named Andrea. She was a beautiful brunette of thirty-eight years old and exuded class both professionally and personally. They had just finished a bottle of Rioja wine and Andrea was in the sunken tub, taking a bath.
In the living room, Tisdale enjoyed the last of his glass of wine and looked out the window, past his terrace, to a view of the city. He had an impressive record collection and he swore by the vinyl sound. His turntable spun John Coltrane's Giant Steps. He let the breathy saxophone of the song Naima ring in his ears as he stared at the night sky.
His phone rang and he walked over to the marble bar counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room to answer the call.
"Hello," he said as he swallowed his last sip of wine.
"Yo, T-Dub. It's Vernell."
"What's up?"
"I went to Cachorro's place. Nothing inside told me anything. He just got a lot of books in there. Some cigars. Fridge is almost empty. Nothing lying around though."
"You went through drawers, cabinets. All that?"
"Yup. Nothing to speak on."
T-Dub's sigh must have sounded like a rush of static on the other end of the line for as loud as it was.
"But there was one other thing," Vernell mentioned.
"What's that?"
"Some dude was there when I drove up. He was lookin' around, like he wanted to get in. I don't know, boss. He didn't look like police but . . . whoever he is, he's lookin' to get with our boy."
"You follow him?"
"Nah. I got his plates, though. I'm gonna look into it."
"Alright. You let me know what you find."
"Yup, yup."
"Good night, bro."
"'night, boss."
Tisdale hung up the phone and stared at the large window across the room. His thoughts were focused on Cachorro and where he had gotten off to. He wondered what had happened with him, Diego and Gameboy. He thought on the kind of trouble that they'd started and he wondered why Cachorro, with whom he'd been so impressed, was in the middle of it.
Then the wine hit his head and he grew tired of thinking about business. He thought about Andrea and knew he could get to the bathroom of the master bedroom before she emerged from the bath. He'd like to watch that, help her dry the water off her soft skin and take her to bed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Crossing a Bridge
Two Days Before The Storm . . .
"I need a gun."
A burly Hispanic man of early thirties, dressed in a mechanic's shirt with the name "Felix" etched on a badge above his breast pocket, was turning a ratchet on the undercarriage of an Oldsmobile. The vehicle rested above his head on a hydraulic lift.
He stopped his work momentarily to look at Gameboy.
"Legal? Or one that can't be traced?" asked Felix.
"Don't matter," Gameboy replied. "I just need it fast."
"Well shit, motherfucker, go to a damn pawn shop. You'll get it quick enough. But you need to think on what you gonna use it for and whether they'll be lookin' for your ass."
Gameboy was flanked by Diego and Cachorro, standing just on the precipice of the West Miami garage. The location wasn't quite in Westchester, but it seemed that all the neighborhoods of Southwest Miami at this point had been typified by one of two general distinctions. They were either Kendall or Westchester. Depending on where you were from, either classification could be considered an insult or a compliment.
"What's it gonna cost me either way?" Gameboy asked.
"Depends," Felix responded as he went back to work.
"On what?"
"If it's just some piece I can deliver for you or if it's the special order type."
"I don't need no AK or some shit like that. Just a handgun."
"Nah, man. Special order means clean. No numbers, no trace to it."
Gameboy looked at his guys, Diego shrugged, no opinion on the matter.
"You gonna use it for something outside self defense, you better get the special order," Cachorro pointed out.
"That's a thinking man right there," Felix interjected.
Gameboy felt a little dressed down with that and his short reaction showed when he responded, "Alright! Alright. I'll take the expensive one. You motherfuckers want me to spend all my money. How much for that?"
"Two hundred," Felix said.
"You for real?" Gameboy was astonished when he asked the question.
"You get what you pay for. You want it or not, 'cause I don't wanna sit here and listen to you bitch about my prices, Nestor. You go somewhere else if it's too much for your broke ass."
Gameboy looked over his shoulder at his boys. "Y'all said you would help me out some with this," he said.
Diego looked to Cachorro, ready to follow his lead like always. Cachorro was hesitant, never shifting his eyes from the stare he had locked on Gameboy.
"You wanna impress the man, this is how you gotta do," Gameboy emphasized, reminding Cachorro of the ultimate goal that created this idea in the first place. Astounding T-Dub by taking action that would cost something to his cross town rival, Araña.
Cachorro reached into his pocket, pulled out some bills, counted off and handed sixty dollars to Gameboy. Diego immediately followed suit and gave his contribution.
Gameboy added some money of his own and handed the collection of cash to Felix.
"How soon?" Gameboy asked.
"Tomorrow," Felix replied.
Gameboy nodded and walked away. Diego and Cachorro followed.
"Just like Scarface, baby," Gameboy said. "That's how you gotta be. Like the world is yours!"
This isn't the movies. That's what Cachorro thought. Have fun playing gangster all you want, but a gun in your hand, out here with people's money on the line. That shit is real.
He double-stepped to catch up with Gameboy so that he was walking next to him. He wasn't going to stand behind.
✽✽✽
"You heard about this storm that's out there?" Lima asked as he waited on hold with the phone receiver to his ear.
Foley waved it off with a dismissive gesture and replied, "There's always a storm out there."
Nelson Foley was in the midst of trying to actually organize his desk. The "to shred" file he had been ribbed about by his partner was finally being dealt with, and he carefully separated staples from the bound pages.
Ayrton Lima stared at his partner a moment, a judging glare that let Foley know he was full of shit. Then Lima simply stated, "Okay."
Foley tossed the pages in his hand on the desk, grabbed his cup of coffee and sat back in his chair. "Look," he said. "Here's the thing. Every year we have hurricane season and every year they tell us to buy non-perishables and board up our homes . . . the same routine that we all know about, because it's the same spiel every time. And then some rain falls, some wind blows and it's never the big, bad hurricane they said it was gonna be."
"So you don't believe in being prepared."
"I've lived here a long time. Never once have I seen a storm that was any different from the dozens before."
Foley took a sip of his coffee, then immediately
let it dribble back out of his mouth and into his cup. He wiped at his chin with the back of his hand. "It got cold," Foley said.
Lima shook his head and added, "You're like a child. Really. I'm the only thing keeping you alive at this point."
Foley shrugged off the comment and stood up.
"Hello!" Lima suddenly said as someone's voice chimed in on the other end of the line.
"I need a warm up," Foley said as he carried his coffee cup with him and walked the other way.
"Yes," Lima said into the phone. He had a catalogue open in front of him that he referred to as he said, "I'd like to order item number 27890, the Fisher Price baby walker."
Foley stood at the coffee machine, pouring a fresh cup. Lt. Kimbrel approached and stood beside him, watching. It took Foley a moment before he realized and turned to see his superior.
Foley nodded, "Lieutenant."
Kimbrel smiled, wide and perhaps making too much of an effort. "Fresh cup?"
"Yes, sir. A warm up."
"That's wonderful." Kimbrel kept his smile shining, and then proceeded to say, "I've never thought much about it, but I don't know how you take your coffee."
Foley furrowed his brow, confused and asked, "Sir?"
"Do you drink it black? Cream, sugar? One or the other?"
Foley still didn't know where this conversation was headed, so he simply replied, "Cream and sugar. Couple of spoons."
Kimbrel really sold the excitement when he said, "Two spoons of sugar! Okay." Foley knew that Kimbrel was about to make a point and knew it was his boss's way of leading towards voicing some form of displeasure.
"It just occurs to me that there are areas that I don't know much, if anything at all, about my men. I thought I was one of those leaders who knew everything that went on in his squad room, but it turns out I'm not."
Kimbrel made no attempt to hide the faux dramatic gesture with which he placed a contemplative finger to his chin and thought deeply on the subject. Foley was a rabbit in crosshairs and he knew it.
Kimbrel continued, "For instance . . . Ah, yes! The case you and your partner were working on with this downtown dealer. Araña."
