I guessed she wasn’t speaking to her father, but I couldn’t be sure. I had a ton of questions for Magdalena. As the cops arrived at the shooting scene, she’d quickly said that she would share everything with me if I agreed to stay quiet about her father possibly being perched in the apartment complex across the street, trying to murder at least one person. The trio of mobsters was as mum as mutes. The two henchmen were carted off to the hospital, while Ferrigamo never said a discernible word to anyone, me included, the guy who’d essentially saved his life. His statements to the police were artfully vague, and because of our tenuous pact, Magdalena’s and mine weren’t much better.
Dropping her phone to her side, I heard her mumble more words in Spanish. From my experience with Eva, I believe we called those four-letter words in English.
“Get it out of your system?”
“I’m just getting started,” she said.
“Vodka tonic, right?”
She nodded and took a sip. “Thank you.”
“All I really know about you is your drink of choice and your name. And that’s only because the police asked to see your identification. Can you share a few more details?”
I could see Alisa inch closer along the bar. I was fine with it. Justin rummaged around the bar, staying noticeably busy, which I found surprising given how he’d mailed it in recently.
“Chinga, where do I start?” She took in a deep breath while shaking her head.
I think she’d just the F word…again.
Swiping a small hand across her face to corral a few loose, brown locks, she curled her lips inward, then marched to the overstuffed leather chair and opened a small red and black fabric purse. From recent dating history, I believe it was Vera Bradley.
She removed a wallet, slid out a card from an inside pocket, then walked toward me holding it up.
Meeting her halfway, I squinted my eyes. “D-E-A?”
“It’s my old employee card. But yes, I’m former DEA.”
I glanced over at the TV, my mind more confused than ever. “You’re telling me this shooting, your dad going after a named mobster, is all about a drug smuggling operation?”
“No, sorry. I just wanted you to know my background. I quit the DEA about eighteen months ago. I’ve been working solo since then as a private investigator.”
Alisa coughed, and I looked in her direction. I could see her smile as she wiped down the bar with a rag.
“That’s funny. I’m also a PI.”
“I know.” She dropped her purse back in the chair, then brought the tips of her fingers together. “Booker & Associates. I did my homework. That’s why I’m here.”
I could sense her endless abundance of nervous energy. “If this is here, then where is there?”
“South Florida, in and around Miami mainly.”
“Booker was just worried about competition.” Alisa gave one of her sassy smiles.
“Oh, no worries there. That’s not what I’m about. This is your turf.”
“She’s kidding. It was a joke.”
Magdalena reached for her drink, tipped her head back, then wiped her mouth with the silver sleeve of her fashionable workout ensemble. She definitely had an edge to her. No more than about five-five, she was packed into a lean, mean, taut package.
“Sounds like you’re a hell of a good investigator if you can hunt me down in the Campisi’s parking lot. The question is why?”
Opening her cute mouth, she released an anxiety-filled breath. “Three days ago, after not hearing from my father for the last week, I went to his place. I could tell he hadn’t been there in days. I found a magazine on his coffee table flipped open to a story about the fifty-year anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.”
I leaned forward and cocked my head to the side. “There’s more, I hope?”
Swaying left and right as if she had a difficult time standing still, she held up a hand.
“My father has a brain tumor.” Her eyes peered holes into the chair, her face suddenly rigid.
“Oh my gosh, Magdalena. I’m so sorry.”
Alisa had beaten me to the punch.
“I’m very sorry. Treatable?” I asked.
“When they diagnosed him several months ago, they gave him only a small chance to live more than a year. They operated and then began an aggressive dose of chemo and radiation. After one round of both, he walked out, saying he wouldn’t leave this world that way. He wanted to die with his dignity. Stubborn hijo de puta.”
More four-letter words, but I could understand her frustration, her pain.
“If you don’t mind, I think I need to sit down.” Magdalena shuffled to a chair in the lounge and fell back into the cushion.
Motioning to Alisa, she joined us in the lounge area. We each sat in chairs near the South Florida PI. I glanced at Alisa and I could see a look of concern, a few extra lines visible at the corners of her eyes. She sat on the edge of the overstuffed chair, her arms crossed.
A few seconds of silence passed as Magdalena rubbed a temple. Alisa apparently had lost her patience. “So, essentially you’ve traveled to Dallas to find your father, take him back to Florida, and make him go through chemo and radiation treatment for his brain tumor? Where in there did we miss the part of him transforming into a sniper assassin, going after organized crime figures?”
Alisa wasn’t normally this blunt with people she interviewed, especially women. She was supposed to take on the role of the compassionate, forgiving PI, not nail their asses to the wall.
“I think Alisa is trying to ask—”
“It’s okay. I get it. I’d be asking the same tough questions. I just wish I had all the answers.”
Anchoring her chin with her fist, Magdalena looked to the front of the bar, her face still stressed. Then I noticed her bottom lip quiver, her eyes now glistening. She used a finger to wipe under one eye, perhaps concerned about smearing makeup, one of the great mysteries about women I’d never understand.
I looked over at Alisa, who hadn’t budged, her emotions seemingly unaffected by Magdalena’s concern about her father. I found it quite anti-Alisa. It appeared her trust barometer was still pegging in the red alert area, despite Magdalena exhibiting a bit of emotion.
Out of nowhere, Justin showed up carrying a box of tissues, surprising me and everyone else in the room.
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.” Magdalena took a tissue. “What was your name again?”
“Justin.”
“But sometimes we call him One Nut,” I said, attempting to lighten the mood.
The cute PI from South Florida let out a laugh while dabbing a tissue to both eyes.
“We really only go there around friends,” Alisa blurted out. I think I noticed her shoulder shake for a little emphasis. Queen Diva had made an appearance.
“Oh, sorry.” Magdalena picked up on Alisa’s cold demeanor, and she widened her eyes as she reached for her drink.
Looking up at Justin, he took my signal. “No, it’s okay, really. It’s one of those stories your friends bring up just to create a little embarrassment.”
Magdalena smiled up at Justin, who shook his head then turned to walk back to his chores, shooting me a quick wink. As appreciative of his aid in a sticky situation, I was just as annoyed by Alisa’s belligerent attitude. This wasn’t the woman with whom I’d worked for the past six months.
Removing another tissue from the box, Magdalena sniffed and brought it to her nose, then took in a deep breath.
“My father…is a killer, that I’m almost certain.” She shook her head, mumbling something in Spanish under her breath.
Alisa looked at me, then scooted her derriere even closer to the edge of her seat.
I held up a finger. “But he didn’t kill anyone at Campisi’s. He came damn close, injured the two bodyguards, and came within a whisker of putting lead in me.” I stroked my goatee and recalled the rush of air whiz by me as Magdalena’s father took target practice on us from an apar
tment complex across the street.
Another deep breath. “My father has committed many crimes in his life, many I know nothing about. He’s served time in prison twice that I know of, once for armed robbery and once for assaulting a police officer.” She paused, then looked into my eyes. “On the law enforcement side, he’s what we called a lifer. He was either going to die in prison or die on the streets. He had committed to crime for the rest of his life.”
She squeezed her eyes shut while pressing her hand to her mouth, tears bubbling through the tiny creases of her lids.
Alisa lifted from her chair. I leaned forward, unsure what she might do, given what I’d witnessed in the last thirty minutes. My partner shuffled a few steps, then sat on the cushiony arm of the leather chair and touched Magdalena’s back. A few pats, then she rubbed it. Magdalena filled a tissue with tears, her face now splotchy red against her bronze skin.
“I’m a mess. This is not like me. I’m sorry to break down like this.”
“It’s all right. I can see your tears are real, as is your hurt over your father.” Alisa looked at me as she spoke. I understood now. Alisa had thought Magdalena had some type of ulterior motive, but now she could see and feel the woman’s pain.
I gave Alisa a concealed wink, then sat up, a hand on my knee. I was still trying to determine how many pieces to the puzzle were still missing, my mind still recalling that bizarre phone call with Sciafini earlier. But I didn’t want to share everything I knew until I’d heard the whole story.
“Magdalena, I—”
“No one calls me Magdalena except for my mother and father. Everyone else calls me Maggie, even Mags.”
Smiling for a second, I continued. “Maggie, your father was trying to kill Dominic Ferrigamo, or his bodyguards, maybe both. Any idea why?”
“No, not specifically. I have a few theories. Maybe we can brainstorm, all of us. That might help us find him…before it’s too late.”
Alisa moved back around, then sat on her chair, her face relaxed but serious. “I still think we need to understand how you found Booker. How you found your father.”
“A little evidence, research, and a couple of good hunches. I already mentioned the magazine article in his apartment. I’d heard him mention JFK before. He seemed like he had a lot of respect for the thirty-fifth president. All the stories about JFK and Marilyn Monroe...Javier, I mean Dad, ignored those, it seemed.”
I held up a finger. “Javier Calero. That’s your dad’s full name?”
“Yes.”
“If I can ask, why did you call him Javier?”
“We hardly spoke for years. He was what you Americans call a loose cannon. He was violent at times, unpredictable, and even when he tried, very unreliable. He was a rebellious, punk teenager in a grown man’s body.”
Images of my father reached my conscious mind, not the punk/teen component, but certainly the aspects to his personality that made him unreliable. A loser.
“I get it now.”
“He was that way up until he was diagnosed a few months back. Then something changed. Perhaps seeing the end changed his life. He approached us.”
“Us?” Alisa asked.
“Yes, my sister, Elena, and I. That’s who I was speaking with earlier. She has a bit of that rebellious streak in her. Oh mi, ella es un puñado.”
She looked up and noticed our poor translation skills. “Sorry, I just said my sister is a handful.”
She’d avoided the four-letter word barrage.
“By the way, where are your roots? Were you born here in the states?”
“Yes, but my father was born in Cuba. As the story goes, mainly from mother and grandmother, Dad came to the states in 1962 as part of a child immigration program created by the U.S. government to remove as many kids as possible from Cuba. They called it Operation Peter Pan. I think my father was seven, maybe eight years old at the time, and they placed him in a foster home in the Miami area, eventually known as Little Havana. My grandmother, though, wasn’t able to join him in the states for another four or five years. By the time she arrived, he was already in with the wrong crowd and had served time in juvie.”
She took in a deep breath, and I could sense her unease, as much as I felt inside. The mention of Cuba, along with his fascination with JFK made me think about Nancy Fitzwater, her father working for LBJ, and the book left at her side, the one I’d read earlier this morning.
“You mentioned that you found more evidence to help locate your father?”
“Actually, finding Dad was almost sheer luck. I was convinced he’d come to Dallas. To do what, I didn’t know.” Gripping the tissue in her hand, she hopped to the edge of her seat, more energy in her body and eyes. “Here’s the deal. I found a story about Booker online, when he played a part in taking down a dirty cop leading some drug-dealing operation.”
Alisa shot me a wink, and I nodded. But it wasn’t about me.
“I knew of no one else in Dallas. Well, I could have called a couple of old DEA buddies, but I didn’t want them to compromise their positions with the agency. I needed to partner with someone who knew the area, could operate freely, and who’d understand the sensitivity of trying to hunt down a criminal—my dad.”
“I guess you know I’m a former DPD cop.”
“Seven years until you were pushed out. It’s only been three days, but I’ve put in the time on this.”
She yawned, bringing her arm to her larger than expected mouth. “Sorry, I drove all night to get here, then fell asleep in your parking lot.”
Touching my chest, I said. “Mine?”
“I tried your office first.” She held up her arms. “But The Jewel was closed early this morning. Not surprising. A few searches later, I found your apartment. Knowing what you looked like, I spotted you racing across the parking lot, heading back to the apartments. I usually go where the action takes me, so I followed you when you squealed out of the parking lot in your Saab. A 9-3, isn’t it?”
I nodded slowly, not feeling as comfortable being on the receiving end of a PI tail. I made a note to myself to ensure my residence was untraceable. How, I had no idea, but I’d put it on Alisa’s task list.
“You almost lost me, but when you stopped at Campisi’s, I pulled around to the side lot. Frankly, I almost fell asleep again. I heard gunfire, then a minute later saw three guys eating pavement making their way into the parking lot. I pulled out my scope and spotted a man with a tan fedora holding a rifle, what looked like a Bergara Tactical BCR17. Excellent range and accuracy. The kind of rifle you buy when you’re trying to hit a target from a good distance.”
She swallowed hard while trying to hide the fact she was digging a fingernail into her palm. Anything to plug the tear ducts.
“Are you certain the sniper was Javier, your father?” Alisa asked.
“Not a hundred percent. I didn’t have the best angle, and I was getting a real bright reflection, but I’m almost sure of it. The hat alone is strong evidence. He favors a tan fedora with a black band around it. That’s what this man was wearing.”
“Did you know your father had sniper type of skills?”
“Unfortunately, my father developed many skills in his lifetime, most of which have been used to do bad things. Mean things. But I think he was…is a very smart man. Not educated in the traditional sense, but things come easily to him. He has that type of gift. Probably a wrong choice of words.”
Maggie dropped her head, her chest attempting to pull in a full dose of air.
Alisa and I traded looks. She twisted her full lips, a sign that she was still attempting to find the core of this hairball.
“Your father’s surgery. Is there any way he’s not acting with a sound mind? I’m just wondering if the surgery or even the tumor might be impacting his ability to act reasonably.”
She released a single chuckle. “Before the surgery, I would have said he was always acting in a rash, selfish manner. No respect for his life or anyone else’s. But afterward, he mellow
ed quite a bit. We actually had two or three meaningful conversations. To answer your question, the doctors told him he needed to limit his stress, have positive thoughts, work out. Live the healthiest life possible, mentally and physically. But they also said he could have episodes of tremendous pain, even to the point where he might hallucinate or black out. They didn’t want him driving or operating anything dangerous.”
I took a sip of my drink, mostly watered down ice.
“I think you need to know that I’m willing to pay you for your time, like any other client.”
Holding up my arms, I said, “That’s not what this is about. I’m simply trying to figure out how this all went down and what we do next. On top of that, I have a couple of other pressing cases.”
I scratched my scruff and coughed, then noticed my two bloody knees. I guess that occurred when I was scrambling for my life in the Campisi’s parking lot.
“Please understand I’m not trying to keep my father from being brought to justice. I know how authorities operate, though. They will consider him a danger to society and will shoot to avoid any risks. I only want him to live as long as he can, get his treatment. Even if it’s behind bars, I want him to feel that he has family who loves him.”
“And you want to feel your father’s love as well.” Alisa extended a hand, and Maggie took hold.
“I lived without it for, what, twenty-seven years? So, yes, I guess I’m selfish too. A few more months, that is all I hope for.”
Maggie crossed herself, then pulled a necklace from under her shirt and kissed the cross.
I gave Alisa a straight-lipped shake of the head, realizing Javier could be a danger to society. “I think we’re taking a risk by not telling the authorities—for him, us, and innocent people walking the streets.”
“Hold on. I don’t think he’s a danger to just anyone. I truly feel like he’s put that part of his life behind him. Like I said, I think he changed after his surgery.”
“Then why did he travel to Dallas to kill someone, even if it was a mobster?”
She licked her lips. “I cannot say for certain. I…I’m thinking that he has some purpose in mind.”
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 61
