Dirty Side of the Storm

by David Sayre

  T-Dub's smile faded. "So you're gonna play morality officer with me, huh?" He shook his head.

  He knew the kind of man Sheen was, and didn't necessarily dislike him for it. He respected Sheen's point of view. He knew what Sheen had been taught. Because many of the life lessons and lectures that Sheen had gotten, T-Dub had gotten as well. From the same man. Delmon's father, Ben Sheen.

  T-Dub always respected Mr. Sheen and had always liked him. And in this moment, he couldn't help but think of him. He had always stayed true to one simple concept that Ben Sheen lived by. A basic truth that he imparted to T-Dub and Delmon's former teenage selves that a man's word has got to stand for something. Sometimes that's all he has.

  T-Dub figured that's how Delmon knew he wasn't in any grave danger. T-Dub said he wasn't here to mess him up and Delmon knew he was a man of his word. All the years gone since they were close to each other didn't change the basic fact that, different paths notwithstanding, they were cut from the same cloth.

  "How is your dad?" T-Dub asked.

  Sheen had the briefest moment of reflection as he considered the question. It had been so long since he'd had to deliver this news. "He passed away eleven years ago."

  "Damn. I'm sorry to hear that. He was a good man."

  "That he was."

  T-Dub spread open his hands and asked, "What are you doing here, man? Why are you poking around, looking for this young'un?"

  "His mother hired me to find him. He's been missing since Andrew."

  "And what have you discovered?"

  "That he's still missing."

  "Funny."

  "Look, before I start telling you anything, answer me this . . . Does Cachorro work for you? Or does he work for someone else that might be a problem for your business?"

  A knowing smile and a knowing nod of the head indicated to Sheen that T-Dub was impressed.

  "He works for me."

  "Okay. Then when was the last time you saw him?"

  "Interrogating me now? I thought you were the one in the chair."

  "I don't have a whole lot to go on and until I can figure out some sort of context here, I'm not sure just how much of what I know I want to tell you."

  Vernell sneered at Delmon and said, "You don't make that call, motherfucker."

  "Charming," Sheen responded.

  "Besides, boss," Vernell addressed T-Dub, but kept his threatening look fixed on Sheen. "Anything this guy knows, we can find out for ourselves. We just go have a talk with that fine young girl the boy got."

  The image of Vernell approaching Maribel angered Sheen and the stern expression on his face gave him away.

  "You don't go anywhere near her," Sheen warned.

  Vernell chuckled and asked, "Oh, you givin' her some special comfort while her man gone?"

  Sheen kept his glare on Vernell. T-Dub stepped in and said, "Chill, chill, chill. Ain't no need for it to come to that."

  T-Dub pulled up an additional chair and sat in front of Sheen.

  "I haven't seen the boy in over a week. I don't know exactly how many days, but it was most definitely a few days before Andrew."

  Sheen nodded and said, "Okay. I don't know a whole hell of a lot. But my gut tells me this is not because of the storm. I don't think he got hurt or he's off in some shelter and trying to get home. My instincts tell me that he went away for some reason."

  T-Dub sighed. An anxious, troubled sigh. He simply said, "Yeah."

  Delmon studied him, a concerned brow and tilted head. He asked, "What does that mean? You know something I should?"

  T-Dub looked over at Vernell, who probably didn't like the boss talking to this detective, but there was no way to read that on his face of stone.

  "Look, I got respect for what you're trying to do. I'm sure the boy's mother is grieving something awful with worry. So I'll tell you something, but you got to promise me that you keep it to yourself. I can't have anybody coming at me right now, because of this. You understand me? I'm talking your word and my word."

  There it was. Something that they could both understand. Like Delmon's father had taught them: A man's word stands for something. His word is his bond.

  "Understood," Sheen said, and genuinely meant.

  "Okay. You heard about this shit that went down at that Cuban place on Flagler?"

  "The shooting with the cops?"

  "Yeah . . . One of the ones that got killed was one of mine."

  "Jesus."

  "I think, and I don't believe I'm mistaken, that Cachorro was there and got away."

  "What the hell were they doing there?"

  "Honestly, I wish I knew. If it was business, it wasn't on account of me. I promise you that."

  Sheen considered the new information and hoped beyond reason there would be more after he asked, "That's it?"

  "That's what you get."

  "You can't tell me anything about this cafetería?"

  "You want to look into that, that's on you."

  Sheen kept his look on T-Dub, wanting more information but realizing it was futile.

  "Okay, then," Sheen said. "You satisfied? Or do you want to keep me here for other reasons?"

  "It's just the boy, right?" T-Dub asked. "You're not looking into anything else?"

  Sheen saw, for the first time in their awkward reunion, a viciousness to his old pal. Nostalgia aside, T-Dub needed to know that his business wasn't going to be messed with for any reason.

  "I'm not here for you, Tisdale. I didn't even know you had any connections to the kid."

  "But now you do."

  Sheen felt the tension of the room, never took his eyes off of T-Dub's and said, "I've got no beef with you."

  That brought a smile to T-Dub's face and he said, "That's all I need to hear. You can go."

  Sheen stood up. He gave one more look to Vernell who returned it with a cold stare.

  T-Dub extended his hand and said, "It's good to see you, brother."

  Sheen looked down at his old friend's hand. The absurdity of the moment was not lost on him. Still, he knew that T-Dub was truly happy to see him, despite the peculiar circumstances. Sheen didn't joyously share the sentiment, but he did accept T-Dub's hand. They shook.

  "Next time you want to talk," Sheen added, "just give me a call or something. You know, the head smacking and the tying to the chair . . . it's a little aggressive."

  "Sorry about that, but business is what it is."

  "Yeah, I know. Nothing personal. See you around, T-Dub."

  And with that Sheen walked away, heading for the door.

  "See you, number twenty-two," T-Dub said as he watched Delmon walk off.

  Vernell stepped over towards T-Dub and said, "Shouldn't have told him about that shit downtown."

  T-Dub waved it off. "He doesn't know anything. Same as us."

  "Yeah, well he finds that boy he may find out what happened. Maybe he warns the young'un to keep clear of you."

  "Then let's find him first."

  ✽✽✽

  It only took Delmon a few moments to look around and get his bearings. Once he knew where he was, he walked several blocks to locate his car where he'd parked it.

  He opened it up, put the key in the ignition, turned it . . . turned it . . . tried again to turn it over and . . .

  Nothing.

  He rested his head back on the seat. Wondering if when he'd woken up this morning he'd just entered some kind of vortex where everything that could go wrong, would go wrong.

  This wasn't the first time the Alfa had broken down. And it probably wouldn't be the last. He'd walk over to the nearest pay phone and call Triple A. But as he started for his walk he was instantly aware that the day would only get worse when he got home, as Ines would not miss the opportunity to, yet again, point out the reasons why Delmon should get rid of this car.

  After a half hour wait, the tow truck came. Then the forty-five minute ride home through afternoon traffic gave Sheen plenty of time to think over the case and the new information that he
'd collected.

  He'd arranged for the tow truck to take the Alfa to his mechanic located among a series of garages and warehouses off of southwest 74th avenue, near Bird Road.

  When he finally got home he immediately went to the refrigerator and got an ice pack to put on his aching, bruising head.

  "Oh my God! What the hell, babe?" Ines asked when she saw him.

  "Nothing. Ran into an old friend," he responded.

  "A friend?"

  "Don't worry about it."

  "No, I see you like this, I worry about it. Tell me what's going on."

  "There are things you don't need to know!"

  "You're shouting at me in my home?"

  "It's my home too."

  "Yes it is. Because we share things. Like when you come home with a bruise on half your face, you share with me what the hell happened!"

  "It's work related."

  Sheen didn't say anything else. Ines widened her eyes, raised her arms and opened her hands at her sides. She expected something else. But he offered no further explanation.

  Finally he lowered the ice pack, looked her straight in the eye and said, "Don't worry about it."

  That was enough to piss her off and she dismissed the entire conversation with an agitated, "Fine. Whatever!"

  She started to walk away, but Sheen stopped her by saying. "Wait, wait."

  She turned back to look at him.

  "The Alfa broke down," he reported.

  "What a surprise," she replied.

  "So we need to figure out timing for the next few days. I can take you to work in the morning, figure out what else needs to be done, if the boys need anything. Whatever. But, I need to take your car for the next few days."

  If Ines wasn't so pissed at him, the deadpan stare with which she looked at him would have almost been comical. She said nothing and, for a few moments, did nothing. Until she finally grabbed her purse, placed it on the kitchen counter and fished around inside. She pulled out a coin purse and extracted several quarters and dimes. She placed them on the counter in front of Delmon.

  "What's that?" he asked.

  "Bus fare," she responded as she closed the coin purse and put it back in her purse. She walked away.

  Sheen sighed, placed the ice pack on his face and said, really to himself, "I'm in pain."

  But he heard Ines respond from down the hall, "Yeah, well I'm not supposed to worry about it, so. You know . . ."

  Her words lingered. Sheen stood alone in the kitchen with the cold pack pressed to his bruise.

  He thought . . . this could have gone better.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Scene of the Crime

  Raymond Beck stared at the building. He stared at the building until he realized there was nothing to see and then he stared at the ground.

  He compared all that he saw to the blown up photographs in his hands. There were no blood stains on the building's side, none on the ground in front of the cafetería or on the street. The rain had washed away the skid marks on 1st Avenue where they'd been indicated by the crime scene photos. He thought that it's one thing to lose the crime scene to rain, but a God damn hurricane? That's just ridiculous. Beck silently applauded the investigator who noticed the tire marks and had the sense to instruct the police photographer to snap a shot.

  Were the tire tracks connected? If so, who was in the car?

  Beck had far more questions than he had answers.

  What he did know was that four people had been shot. Two police, two civilians. One cop had survived, but was unconscious and in critical condition at the hospital. The other cop and both the civilians had died at the scene.

  People inside the establishment had been questioned. Their claims were that a man was sitting at the counter eating when another man came in and started shooting. The gunfight spilled outside and two other men, the detectives Beck presumed, arrived and joined the gunplay.

  Beck had one problem with that. He had studied the photos and the crime scene and could see no way that Detective Lima would have been shot both times from the same gun.

  The victim who had first been shot inside the restaurant had crawled to the door, as was indicated by the blood smear in the photographs from the day of the incident. Emergency responders had put Detective Lima in an ambulance before the photographer could get a shot of where he'd landed. But the blood splatter and shell casings indicated that he'd been shot from two different angles in height.

  Furthermore, it appeared as though Detective Foley was shot from an angle that could not have been fired by the man on the ground. And Beck thought it improbable that the man would be back on his feet for a second shot at Lima and one well aimed shot to Foley.

  It didn't add up.

  The only other information he had from the initial incident reports was that a search warrant for the premises had been found on Lima's person.

  He needed to talk to the detective's commanding officer. He had asked around a little about Lieutenant Steve Kimbrel and most he had asked simply categorized the narcotics shift lieutenant as "good police."

  That was his next step. Speak to the lieutenant.

  ✽✽✽

  Raymond Beck was in his late thirties. His once dirty blonde hair had darkened over time, as he'd gotten older and spent more time in an office and less time in the sun, where he'd spent much of his youth. He was clean-cut, in shape and more average looking than particularly handsome.

  He drove through the Miami streets, questions filling his head that he'd hoped he would have more answers to once he'd reached Jackson Memorial Hospital.

  His earlier trip to the cafetería at Flagler and first had been his second trip to the crime scene. The day of the shooting, he had gotten the call as soon as responding officers had alerted the police that two of the victims were cops. That's when the Internal Investigations Division was notified.

  By the time he'd arrived, Detective Lima was already gone in an ambulance and the homicide squad was well into investigating the scene.

  Beck learned what he could in those early moments, but with the chaos of the initial search for facts, homicide detectives and the forensics unit were diligently working the case. Beck thought it best to observe and take copious notes of all that he saw and heard.

  He chose not to get too involved, knowing how most police felt about internal detectives. He had looked into what the police had discovered about the cafetería's owner. No red lights went off. The man's name was Guillermo Portilla. He was a straight and narrow, tax-paying citizen. Beck had even sat in on the homicide detectives' interview of Portilla and nothing strange came of it. This further complicated all departments varying investigations into the matter, as no one could make any clear connection of motive between the incident and the location, as far as the owner was concerned.

  Beck had been with internal for a year and a half. He liked most of his work. He knew some colleagues that fit the stereotype of an internal investigator, that is to say those who would build their careers and ultimately their pensions on taking down mostly honest cops. But Beck fully believed that he was there for the division's true purpose. And he further believed that every cop he'd charged after investigation had been corrupt.

  Still he understood why many in the department felt that internal investigators were rats. He just hoped he would get reasonable cooperation from Lt. Kimbrel.

  Beck had called before leaving the crime scene and was informed that Kimbrel was not at the department offices, but was currently with Detective Lima's family at Jackson Memorial.

  Once he'd checked at the front desk for the room number, Beck made his way through the maze of color-coordinated, path lined corridors. Finally he reached his destination and approached the only person in the group that looked like police to him.

  "Lt. Kimbrel?" he asked, extending a gesture of a handshake.

  "Yes," Kimbrel responded.

  "I'm Detective Raymond Beck, I.I.D."

  Kimbrel shook Beck's hand, poker faced, th
en indicated with a shift of his head that they should step away from the distraught family to discuss the matter.

  They stood by a window at the end of the corridor leading to the various rooms and observation bays. Kimbrel took a deep breath, as if he could exhale some of the stress he'd experienced over the past week. He looked out at the justice building that rested a few blocks away, and could even see the Miami Orange Bowl Stadium off in the distance.

  "What do you need?" Kimbrel asked.

  "How's Detective Lima doing?" was the first thing that came to mind for Beck to ask.

  Kimbrel thought for a moment, appreciative of the question. "He's stable but unconscious. Hasn't woken since the surgery. The operation went well. They were able to remove the bullet fragments. Now it's just waiting. Doctors tell us it's not as bad as it seems, but . . . well, you know how it is. He's unconscious, so . . ."

  "Right."

  "I want to help you where I can, Detective. Do you have any questions for me?"

  "I've looked over the photos from the crime scene. I'm trying to piece it together."

  "Have you spoken with the detectives at homicide?"

  "A little. They seem to be in the same boat, trying to make sense of the angles. I think there had to be another shooter that we're not aware of, based on how things look."

  "And did you mention this to them?"

  "They're split on their opinions. A couple of them see it my way. Others say all shooters are accounted for. But, you knew that already."

  "I did."

  "Lieutenant, I'm not in the habit of keeping information to myself if it's pertinent to the shooting of two of our own."

  Kimbrel let a dispassionate grin crawl across his face and said, "I had to check."

  "Understood. So, can I ask my questions?"

  "Go ahead."

  "What were Lima and Foley doing at the scene?"

  "It's my understanding they were planning to enter the premises looking for a drug dealer who goes by the name Araña."

  "What kind of drug dealer?"

  Kimbrel didn't fully understand the question and the uncertainty was on his face. He asked for a clarification, "What kind?"