Dirty Side of the Storm

by David Sayre

  Foley held up his hand, stopping Kimbrel before he continued to pile on the concern and said, "We got a fresh warrant, Lieutenant."

  Kimbrel's act ceased and the sarcastic grin turned to a serious glare. "Show me," he demanded.

  Foley nodded and headed for his desk. Kimbrel followed. As they approached, Lima was ending his phone call. "Got it. Finally," he said with a smile.

  Foley shot an urgent look Lima's way and said, "You got that warrant from Judge Curtis? Boss wants to look at it."

  Lima looked at his desk and responded, "Yeah. Of course." He located the paper on his desk and handed it to Kimbrel.

  As the Lieutenant studied the form, Lima and Foley shared a look. Foley's nerves were in his expression. But Lima was much better at disguising his concern. He knew they'd done an expert job at forging the signature and didn't expect Kimbrel to notice anything questionable about the warrant.

  Kimbrel finished reading, handed the warrant back to Lima, and then gave both detectives a stern look. "You've got some sort of plan I assume."

  "We're watching the place the next few days, making sure of the routine before we step inside," Lima said.

  "And yet you're here," Lt. Kimbrel replied.

  "We're heading out, boss. Paperwork just came through," Foley said.

  "Keep me up to date. You let me know what you find after you've had eyes on this place. Then we'll discuss how you need to go in."

  "You got it, boss," Lima answered.

  Kimbrel gave one more, strong glare at each of his men. Then he walked away.

  Foley breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like he just got away with a close call. Lima felt disappointed. He didn't like blatantly lying to the Lieutenant. Kimbrel had always been good to him and Lima felt guilty about his actions.

  He wondered if this was a big mistake.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Other Half

  Sheen decided to walk. His Alfa was parked in the garage down the street from his office building, but he thought it best to get the blood flowing and he knew the walk through the downtown streets would do the trick. He had three blocks west and two blocks north to cover.

  It was balmy out, a slight breeze covering the heat that normally persisted in late summer. The atmosphere was still in flux after the storm, as were the sidewalks and streets upon which Delmon travelled. Errant tree branches and debris were scattered about the pavement. City sanitation workers collected rubble and refuse that had blown around downtown. A landscaping truck was parked on the corner of 1st street and 2nd avenue and men tossed branches and shrubs into the back of it.

  Sheen reached the end of the street where it converged onto Biscayne Boulevard. He turned left at the crosswalk and stepped onto the street, crossing to the sidewalk on the other side. Large buildings on his left and Bayfront Park on his right, separated by Biscayne Boulevard, Sheen walked along the sidewalk with the sound of the overhead Metro Mover turning on the tracks behind him.

  He stopped at a building between 2nd and 3rd with a sign above the window that read "Café Vida" and one hanging inside the door that read "Open". Sheen pushed against the door and stepped inside.

  The restaurant had a long high top with several seats at the counter, two booths against the far wall and two rows of tables: five that seated two and five that seated four.

  "Anywhere you like, papi," said a middle-aged Hispanic waitress behind the counter.

  "Thanks," Sheen said as he approached her, "But, actually I'm looking for Maribel."

  "She's not here. Why are you looking for her?"

  Sheen smiled, noting the woman's curiosity. "Is she off today, or . . .?"

  "No, she'll be here. She's just not here yet."

  "Okay. Do you know when she'll be in?"

  The waitress turned and looked behind her at the clock that hung from the wall. She returned her focus to Sheen and responded, "I think a half hour. If she's not running late."

  "Is there a phone number I could reach her at?"

  The waitress' curiosity elevated to suspicion. She asked, with a concerned expression, "Who are you?"

  "I'm an investigator. I'm looking into a missing persons case. Somebody she knows."

  "You're the police?"

  "No. I'm a private detective."

  "Who's missing?" the waitress asked.

  "A young man. His mother hired me to find him."

  "Aye. Pobrecita."

  "Yes," Sheen agreed. He knew the expression, not only because he spoke semi-fluent Spanish he'd learned from years of being with Ines, but because he'd lived in Miami all his life and if you didn't know that pobrecita meant "poor thing" then you hadn't been out of your house in Miami for about fifteen years.

  "You won't get her on the phone. You can wait for her."

  "No, I'll come back later. Thank you very much."

  The lady smiled at him and went about her business. Sheen walked out of the diner and strolled down Biscayne, wondering how he was going to kill a half hour. He hadn't taken her up on her offer because he didn't feel like sitting in the restaurant, getting antsy as he waited. For that he could keep the blood flowing, continue getting some mild exercise by walking around Downtown.

  He continued taking his visual tour of post-Andrew Miami. He noted the damage that had been done to the Bayside Marketplace across the street. The outdoor mall was built on and around the iconic Pier 5, which had once claimed to have "The World's Finest Fishing Fleet." Bayside featured numerous shops and popular eateries with a view of Biscayne Bay and had been a well-known tourist shopping destination since it opened in the 1980's as part of a revitalization of Downtown Miami.

  Sheen didn't have any interest in killing time there. He didn't know if they were completely open and wasn't curious enough to find out one way or the other. So he turned off of Biscayne and walked along the sidewalk on 3rd street. For a moment he considered he could double back on 1st avenue and go to the library, or even walk back to his office. But he figured that by the time he'd gotten settled in at either place, he'd have to up and leave again in five minutes. So he chose instead to continue walking and browse the windows of the downtown shops.

  ✽✽✽

  Maribel opened the front door of the Café Vida and stepped in, hurried and with puffy cheeks beneath her eyes, the tell-tale sign that she'd been crying.

  "Buenos dias," the waitress behind the counter said.

  "Buenas," Maribel replied. "I'm late. I'm sorry."

  Maribel rushed towards the "employees only" section behind the kitchen doors. The waitress asked the sole customer at the counter if he needed anything else and he said no. She excused herself and followed Maribel to the backroom.

  "What's wrong, mi amor?" she asked Maribel, who was changing from her t-shirt into a work shirt.

  "Nothing . . . everything. I don't know. Bad day."

  "Bad day already?"

  "The house is a wreck. Water damaged almost everything inside. I mean, it's still standing . . . sort of. But we don't know if there's more damage to the structure. And the insurance company is trying to deal with us, but . . ."

  "Everybody is trying to get their insurance companies on the phone."

  "It's too much at once, I know. But . . ."

  The older waitress put a hand on Maribel's shoulder and squeezed. "You're here now. Work and take your mind off it." She took a closer look at Maribel's face. "You were crying."

  Maribel smiled, feeling foolish and admitted, "Yes."

  The waitress hugged her and said, "I know, mami. It's hard. But it's going to be okay."

  Maribel closed her eyes, taking comfort in the friendly embrace. "Gracias," she whispered.

  The embrace ended and Maribel was ready for work. They walked towards the door that separated the kitchen from the main restaurant. The older lady mentioned, "Someone was looking for you."

  "Who?" Maribel asked.

  "Yo no sé. He's a detective, but not police. He was asking about a boy who was missing . . .?" The waitress l
et the curiosity hang in her final statement then gave Maribel a shrug.

  Maribel didn't let it show in her face but she knew what it was about. And she didn't let her expression betray her either when they stepped out of the kitchen entrance, saw Delmon Sheen standing by the front door and the waitress leaned in to whisper, "Es el hombre."

  Maribel nodded slightly and the waitress returned to her position behind the counter. Maribel grabbed a menu from the rack next to the cash register and walked up to Sheen.

  "Why are you looking for me?"

  Her demeanor was cold, serious. Sheen took it to be defensive rather than overtly mean. He tried a smile on her, but it didn't take as he responded, "I have a few questions for you."

  "About what?"

  "Uhm, well . . ." Sheen glanced over at the empty tables and questioned, "Can we have a seat?"

  "You can have a seat and I can take your order if you want," Maribel dispassionately responded.

  "Okay." Sheen looked at the tables, then back to Maribel with an outstretched arm to indicate she should lead him on.

  "You can sit anywhere you like," she said.

  He nodded, then went directly to the first two-seat table. She placed the menu in front of him as he sat down.

  "Do you need a few minutes to look at the menu?"

  "Are you refusing to let me ask you . . ."

  Maribel interrupted, "You're not a cop, I know that much. But who are you?"

  "My name's Delmon Sheen. I'm a private investigator. Your boyfriend's name is Eladio Calderon, is that right?"

  Maribel was good at hiding her emotions until something caught her in the throat and she was forced to stop her tears from welling up. And Delmon knew how to read people. So the briefest of moments where Maribel did not hide her reaction did not go unnoticed by the detective.

  "What's it to you?"

  "Yessenia hired me to find him. She's a mother who's looking for her son and if you know anything about what's happened to him, I think you should tell me."

  "Are you gonna order something or not?"

  Sheen stared at her for a moment longer, then looked down at the menu. "Huevos fritos con salchicha," he replied.

  "You speak Spanish," she said as she wrote on the ticket.

  "Some."

  "Tostada?"

  "Si."

  "Café con leché?"

  "Yeah. Look, Eladio's mother doesn't know if her son was lost or, God forbid, killed in the storm. She doesn't know what happened to him or where he is. Do you understand that?"

  "He's my boyfriend. Of course I understand that. And she's a good woman, I like her a lot."

  "Then why not tell me if you know anything?"

  "I can't help you!"

  Sheen shook his head and quickly shifted his weight so he could extract his wallet from his back pocket. "I don't believe you," he said and took out a twenty dollar bill. He placed the money on the table and Maribel looked down at it.

  "Can you help me now?" he asked.

  She smirked, irritated. A quick exhale escaped her nose as she shook her head with more than a healthy bit of attitude. Maribel didn't like her intelligence insulted and she didn't like being made to seem cheap. If she did know something, would she really tell this stranger about the man she loved for twenty bucks? Fuck this detective, she thought.

  "I don't know what you think I am, but you leave that there then you're wasting your money on top of wasting your time."

  Sheen didn't reach for the money. He just kept his stare on Maribel. But the face off wasn't going as he'd expected. Maribel wasn't budging. And she only put the exclamation on her point when she added, "You leave that on the table, the busboy is gonna get the biggest tip he's had all year."

  Despite the stare down and the seriousness of what Sheen was trying to accomplish, he thought her comment was funny. He had to admit he liked Maribel. She wasn't going to be pushed around by anyone. Though he didn't believe a word she had said about not knowing where Eladio was.

  Finally, and begrudgingly, Sheen took the twenty off the table and returned it to his wallet.

  "Papas frita or la casa?" Maribel asked, her eyes on the ticket upon which she pressed her pen.

  "La casa," Sheen responded in defeat.

  Maribel swiped away his menu and left Sheen to think on how ineffective his questioning had been. He heard the sounds of the espresso machine in the background as his café con leché was being made. He already knew that he needed a different way to find out what information Maribel had on Eladio and his whereabouts. His hunch at the moment was that the young man was alive, possibly safe, but maybe in trouble.

  Sheen, again, took out his wallet and retrieved a business card from within. He placed the card on the table where he had previously put the cash.

  When Maribel returned with his café con leché he asked her, "Can you at least answer me one thing? Do you love him?"

  Maribel was about to head away from the table, but Sheen's question made her stop. She turned her head and looked down at Sheen. She saw the sincerity in his eyes.

  "With all my heart," she sweetly and honestly responded. But the moment passed quickly and she moved on towards the kitchen. But not before noticing and taking Sheen's card off the table.

  Sheen poured the Cuban coffee into his steamed milk, tossed a pinch of salt into the mixture and stirred in two spoons of sugar. He sipped it and savored the moment.

  ✽✽✽

  It was late afternoon and Sheen sat in his Alfa that he had parked at a metered spot in the diagonal spaces that were situated between the medians of the north and southbound lanes of Biscayne Boulevard. He kept a close watch on the Café Vida storefront, as he had done for the last hour or so. Earlier in the day, after finishing his late breakfast, he'd gone to the library to pass some time, and then had returned to his office, where he got an afternoon nap. Finally, when he figured it might be soon that Maribel's shift would be ending at the restaurant, he went to the parking garage on 1st street, got his Alfa and drove to a parking spot where he could watch and wait.

  His waiting was finally over when Maribel walked out of the building and headed towards 3rd street. He started the car, pulled out of the parking section and hurried onto Biscayne to see where she would go.

  Maribel crossed the 3rd street intersection, but turned left once she got to the opposing sidewalk. Sheen flicked his turn signal on and kept an eye on Maribel as he waited for the light. He saw her step past an open gate into a public parking lot. He took a quick glance at the traffic lights, noticing the Biscayne light at the end of 3rd was yellow. He'd have his green soon and hoped he could get around the corner to see Maribel get into a vehicle.

  As soon as the light turned, Sheen was in the intersection heading for 3rd street. He pulled up to the parking lot just in time to see Maribel get into a red Toyota Camry. It didn't look like a new model, maybe an '85 or '86.

  Sheen backed up the Alfa and shifted it towards the curb, so as not to block traffic and call attention to himself. Once Maribel started up her car, pulled out of the space, the lot and onto the street, Sheen gave it a little distance and then tailed her heading west. The closer they got to northwest 3rd avenue and Sheen saw the overpass up ahead, he assumed Maribel was getting on the expressway. As she drove under it and turned left towards the on-ramp, Sheen knew he was right.

  He had remembered Eladio's mother saying that she thought Maribel lived with her family in Cutler Ridge. Hard working girl he thought, making that commute everyday to wait tables. It was only thirty minutes later, after a series of interchanges, when they were on the turnpike going south that Sheen realized they'd driven past the exits to Cutler Ridge.

  ✽✽✽

  Campbell Drive was in Homestead. It was one of the streets off of which drivers could exit the turnpike and it resembled something between a country road and a small-town main street. Or that's what it usually looked like. Now it looked like destruction. Strip malls and mini-marts destroyed, demolished, gutted. That's
what Campbell Drive had become in Andrew's wake.

  Sheen followed Maribel's Camry through the remnants of a storm that were far worse than anything he'd seen in Kendall, Downtown or in his mother's neighborhood on the Miami River.

  He drove past a convenience store that still stood, but was badly busted up, windows shattered, door temporarily bolted in place. Sheen read the sign set out front, a piece of plywood propped against the damaged structure. In black paint it read: "Closed by Andrew! If you plan on lootin' I'll be shootin'."

  Sheen knew things were bad in the Southwest region of the area. He'd seen the news reports and read the articles in the paper. But driving through this gave him a greater sense of what was happening.

  He turned as Maribel turned and continued to drive in the direction she was leading them. And then he saw it. Her eventual destination.

  The Homestead Sports Complex had been built over the past year and was to be the spring training home of the Cleveland Indians starting next season. But significant damage was done in the storm and Sheen's immediate reaction was that major repairs, or even rebuilding, would be in order. But, for the moment, it wasn't being used for baseball.

  There were tents. Row after row of tents and temporary dwellings. A tent city had been set up by the 8th Engineer Support Battalion of the United States Marine Corps. And Sheen had never seen anything like it up close.

  Maribel parked her car in a patch of grass that was full of vehicles. Sheen didn't want to tip her off, so he parked a few rows away.

  He got out of the Alfa and kept his eye on her as she walked towards the tent city. He picked up the pace, trying not to lose her. He saw her turn down a row of tents. But by the time he got there, he couldn't make her out in the crowd.

  People stood outside the tents, some sat in chairs, fanning themselves. Others carried water bottles and supplies into the tent in which they were lodging.

  He'd never find her in all of this. He knew he couldn't cover all this ground and look through each and every dwelling. He'd be here for hours and the sun would soon be setting. His best chance was to re-visit her workplace and try again.