Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  "Fucking construction," I said over the rhythmic thwapping of the windshield wipers. "It's gonna take forever to get out of town. Any cop stops us for any reason at all and it's over."

  Dorothy patted my arm. "It's not gonna take forever and no one's gonna stop us," she said. "Just don't give 'em any reason to."

  The AC finally kicked in, cooling the SUV down to comfort level, but my breathing was still on the heavy side and my heart thumped hard in my chest. I said, "We didn't leave anything behind, right? We got the weapons, we didn't leave any prints …"

  "We got everything. You rinsed out the sink, didn't you?"

  "Yeah. Except for the dirty dishes in it. All the blood's down the drain."

  She smiled, and exhaled along with it. "Then we got away with it. We're clean."

  "You saved our asses back there, you know, jabbing that ape when he was going for my piece. I mean, he was ready to do us both. But sweet Jesus, you got that motherfucker."

  Her hand remained on my arm and her voice turned calm. "It's a good thing we were both there. That room was way too small for you to maneuver around in, even with your gun. If you'd been by yourself, they'd've had you." She took my arm and, with a little effort, leaned her large body across the center console. Her lips met my ear with a soft kiss and she whispered, "I would never let anything happen to you, my love. Never."

  "It's just that I don't like what —"

  She put an index finger to my lips, shushing me, then quietly said, "Neither of us likes it. We don't have to like it. But we did have to do it. Don't ever forget that. We had to do it." Then in a whisper, she added, "Both of us."

  She softly kissed my ear and neck. It felt terrific, knowing what she would do for me, what she had already done. But that was the problem. She had killed two people. With a knife, no less. You kill someone with a knife, it's up close and real personal. You can feel somebody else's flesh tearing under your own hand as it guides the sharp blade through organs and arteries. You're so close, with almost no space between you and the victim, where you can see in his eye right then — that split second when he realizes what you've done. When he knows his life is going to end. From what I hear, that's the same moment you realize it.

  And believe me when I tell you, not everyone can do it.

  For the first time in the ten years we'd been together, I had to ask myself, Who is she? Who is this woman I thought I knew?

  Through all the uncertainty, though, I know she did it for me. The thought was overwhelming, that she would do it. I turned my head a little and moved my eyes over to look at her. So easy to look at. My heart finally slowed down, and so did my breathing. We got to US 1 and I made the turn over the bridge, leading us out of Key West.

  I said, "You're everything to me, honey. You always have been and you always will be. All the way to the end."

  "All the way," she said, giving me an affirming squeeze and then sinking back into her seat.

  Traffic remained light. The windshield wipers tapped out their relaxing tempo. We drove up to Big Coppitt Key, about ten miles up the road, to a construction site a couple of miles off the highway. Once there we tossed the twist-tied bag into a yawning dumpster and headed back home through the pouring rain.

  32

  Silvana

  Sunday, July 17, 2011

  10:05 PM

  VARGAS TOOK THE ENVELOPE Silvana had placed on the table in front of him. She sat across from him at this very table in Versailles as she did every Sunday night. Late dinner, a beer or two, followed by the envelope. Vargas peeked inside and riffled the bills, which were all facing the same direction.

  "Pretty good week," he said.

  Silvana sipped her beer. It was her second. "Damn right. And it's gonna stay that way. Maybe even get better."

  Without taking the bills out, he made a preliminary count. "Looks like about fifteen hundred."

  "Fourteen, to be exact. Five hundred from Maxie, five hundred from Desi Ramos for his new drug territory over around Dolphin Mall and Sweetwater, and a hundred each from those three nigger street dealers in Miami Lakes and that new one, the Cuban, in Hialeah."

  "Fantastic!" he said. "And you think it'll get better?"

  She carefully folded her napkin and placed it in the very center of her empty plate. The silverware went on top of the napkin at a diagonal angle. She fussed over it a moment to get the diagonal just right, then said, "I'm telling you, Bobby, the street dealers are where we can strike gold. You don't tax them too much, just a couple of hundred a week, which they can easily afford to keep us off their asses. The key is, there's a million of them. They're on every fucking street corner."

  Vargas took the first sip of his second beer and chuckled. "And if one of them gets taken out, another one moves in to take his place."

  Silvana smiled. "Exactly." She ordered another beer. Three was very unusual for her, but she was feeling good, so why not? Like Vargas said, they'd had a good week. "And not only that," she added, "if we can nail Yayo Dávila down in Key West, Flaco's man takes over Yayo's crew and Flaco moves into the number two slot. Lots of possibilities there."

  "And lots of money," Vargas said through a hearty grin.

  "Ha! Fuckin' right."

  Silvana's beer arrived and they touched bottles in a toast to better times ahead.

  She said, "We're the perfect team, Bobby."

  "Ahhh, you got that right."

  She allowed herself a smile. "I always wanted to work with someone like you."

  "You did?"

  "Damn straight," she said. "It took a long time for us to find each other. I remember back in, I think it was '04, I was still in uniform, in patrol. They partnered me up with this guy Rhodes. You ever know him?"

  "Rhodes … mmm … no, I don't think so. I had just come on the force back then. I was working patrol, too. Out of the 17th Street station. I didn't know anybody."

  "Well, this motherfucker was the last guy you'd wanna know, you know? He never had what it took. He was about thirty at the time, been on the force a few years. But he wasn't cut out for cop work."

  "Why? What'd he do?"

  "Well, we were working out of the 62nd Street station at the time, assigned to Liberty City."

  "Oh, Jesus!" said Vargas.

  "Right. You know. It's like the last place you'd ever want to be. All niggers, all the time. And all of them up to something. Fucking gangs, drugs, drive-bys, robberies … there was no stopping it. Couldn't even slow it down."

  "Hmph! Still can't."

  She chuckled. "Yeah. Well anyway, this one night we were driving around and you know the corner of 63rd Street and 12th Court?"

  "Shit, one of the worst!"

  "You got that right. Anyway, me and Rhodes, we're driving around, it's about three AM, and what do we see but this drug deal going down right on the corner. Right out in the fucking open! They weren't even trying to hide it. Shit, they even saw us coming. One guy passed a good-sized bag to another guy for a huge wad of cash. Looked like a key of coke." Silvana took a long pull on her beer. Vargas did the same. She continued, "So I'm driving. I say, 'Let's bust these fuckers' and Rhodes, he's like, 'What good's it gonna do? We're only exposing ourselves to potential trouble.' And I'm like, 'We're the fucking trouble! They're the motherfuckers who are exposing themselves!' Can you believe that pussy? Didn't want to stop and make the pinch."

  "So what'd you do?"

  "I turned on the flashers and pulled up with the two of them in the headlights. We got out and I started to make the collar when all of a sudden three more niggers jump out of the weeds. I draw my weapon and one of them says something like 'Waste that bitch' or something like that. I start firing. I get two of the three who came up on us. The third one ran away. The two who were doing the coke deal just stood there, frozen. I gave each of them one in the head, almost point blank. It was all over in less than ten seconds."

  "You were okay? Not hurt?"

  "No, I was okay. But get this. I turn around and Rhodes is stan
ding there like a fucking statue, his mouth wide open and his piece still in his holster. The fucker didn't even draw to help me out. I get four of the five niggers and that fucking jackoff just stands there! I could've been killed if one of them had gotten a shot off."

  "Were they armed?"

  "Yeah. Uh, well, three of the dead ones were. I pulled their pieces out and shot into the air a couple of times to leave evidence their guns had been fired, then I put them on the ground near the bodies so it looked like they drew down on us. The fourth one, the guy buying the coke, I planted a throw-down next to him. I didn't want any eyebrows raised about killing a poor, innocent unarmed civilian."

  "Did Rhodes back you up in the FDLE investigation?"

  "Yeah, he did. I don't think he really wanted to, like he wanted to say I just went crazy and started shooting. I know that's what he thought, that I just lost it. But I think he figured if he did that, if he turned on me, he might wind up with one in his own head."

  "If he had ratted you out, he should have."

  Silvana said, "Don't worry. He would have."

  They both laughed and clicked their bottles together again.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  An hour or so later, Silvana arrived at her apartment. The place was small, only about seven hundred square feet, but it contained everything she needed. And more importantly, everything was in its place. God, how she hated disorder. She constantly struggled against it, at the station, in her car … even in her tidy apartment, things could get messy real fast if she didn't stay on top of it. At work, some asshole is always coming around and throwing files on her desk every which way. Or looking for something and fucking everything up while they did it, forcing her to take the time to put everything back where it belonged. Why the hell couldn't they understand?

  The night had cooled down, unseasonably so for high summer. She threw open the bedroom window and allowed a beautiful breeze to wash over her. Her memory went back to Mariel, and the nice breezes that always freshened the evenings of her youth. Following the hot days, cooler nighttime air always wafted into her family's little apartment through open balcony doors. She remembered stepping out onto their tiny second-story balcony, only two crowded blocks from the ocean, looking down on people gathering and sitting on plastic chairs they brought out of their apartments.

  These nightly chats were a real tradition. Favorite topics included any out-of-the-ordinary events, how the kids were doing in school, the latest shortages, and of course, baseball. Politics, while deeply felt, was never openly discussed in these little outdoor get-togethers. The block captains were never far away, and any political statements would certainly be relayed to them by at least one of the neighbors looking to kiss ass.

  Now, a lifetime away, standing before an open bedroom window in Little Havana, with no view to speak of, the same refreshing feeling tingled her skin and made her smile. Made her feel good all the way through to her soul.

  After undressing and folding her clothes correctly, she sat on the edge of the bed fingering her mother's crucifix which hung around her neck. Silvana had worn it for nearly twenty years, feeling her mother's influence seep through it into her heart. Often, when she was at a fork, searching for a way to turn, she would hear her mother's warning in her head: ¡Ay, Silvanita! ¡No hagas eso! Sometimes the advice would be more precise, as it was the other day in Maxie Méndez's office: You can get money from this one. He must pay for his crimes. Pero ten mucho cuidado, querida. El es muy peligroso. Other times, her mother would criticize her after the fact: You know you shouldn't have let him go, Silvanita. He was one of the evil ones.

  Now, as she did every night, she caressed it and kissed it, saying, Buenas noches, Mamacita.

  She crawled into bed and picked up The Overlook from the nightstand. It was just getting good. Harry Bosch was ready to kick some serious ass.

  33

  Logan

  Monday, July 18, 2011

  8:20 AM

  I SURPRISED MYSELF AT HOW SOUNDLY I SLEPT following the incident at Sharma's apartment. As soon as I climbed into bed, I held Dorothy in my arms and fell asleep quickly. My dreams were sweet, and I felt like I never changed positions, although I'm sure I did. I remember reading someplace where you change positions twenty or more times during an average night of sleep. I don't remember where I read it, but that was the gist of it. Anyway, I felt very refreshed when I woke up over nine hours later.

  Being Monday, Dorothy had to get up and go to work, so she was up at around six-thirty and out the door by quarter of eight, although I don't remember her getting up at all. Right after I woke up, I did my stretching and my fifty pushups, then off to the bathroom for my morning routine. Into the kitchen, where I pulled out a nice big orange to go with my shredded wheat, then off to the living room to watch a little TV.

  I'd settled in to watch this guy Dr Oz, who talks all the time about staying healthy. Dorothy had turned me on to him a year or so ago, and whenever I'm in front of a TV at that hour of the morning, I usually check him out. Today, he was high behind some kind of juice maker that was supposed to change our very lives.

  I'd just taken my first bite of the orange, when I heard the thud at the door.

  Regular people don't knock like that.

  Only cops.

  I muted the TV and answered the door. Lieutenant Ortega walked in without being invited, brushing past me with his partner close behind.

  "Good morning, Logan," he said, with no good wishes in his voice. His solid build filled out a four-pocket white guayabera, his badge draped out of the upper left pocket. His shoulder rig appeared to be freshly oiled and held a very big revolver, maybe a .44 Magnum Dirty Harry model.

  "Won't you come in," I said with a hand gesture, as they had already moved into position in my living room. We all remained standing, me about five feet from the two of them.

  "This is Sergeant O'Neil. You know him, I'm sure."

  I nodded. "What brings you here, Lieutenant?"

  His dark eyes narrowed under his low forehead. "Actually, Logan, you bring me here. I want to know what you were doing all last night and where you were doing it."

  Normally, the cops in this town don't act like this, barging in like they own the joint. They generally show a little respect, but Ortega's been on the force a long time.

  He used to be a real tough guy, liked to push people around, until he barely survived a gunshot wound a few years ago. That mellowed him out a little, but only a little. Even though he's in his fifties now, you still don't want to fuck with him. He'll put you down before you know what hit you. Not only that, he's a Conch, like myself, and he knows everybody in town and what they're up to. The simple fact that he's here so soon after the incident last night made me plenty nervous. I didn't show it, though.

  I said, "I was here. With Dorothy. She made dinner and we stayed in. It was raining pretty hard."

  "Didn't want to go out in the rain? What, are you afraid of getting wet? You're gonna have to do better than that."

  "I'm afraid that's all I got, Lieutenant. We were both here last night. All night long, in fact. And this morning, Dorothy got up at around half past six and went to work a little after that."

  "I don't suppose you might've slipped out for a few minutes last night? Like, for example, to run over to Caroline Street and kill three people."

  "What? Are you accusing me of murder?"

  "Not yet. But tell me, are you acquainted with —" He pulled his notebook from one of his shirt pockets and consulted it. "— with Sharma Coates? Thirty-one years of age? Formerly of Hialeah? Also formerly of Caroline Street?"

  "I know her," I replied. "What of it?"

  "I know you know Trey Whitney's former muscle, the Pinksmith brothers, Morgan and Stanley. According to what I heard, they did a number on you in the Duval Square parking lot a few weeks ago."

  "I know them, too. So what?" I was, however, surprised to learn they were brothers.

  He returned his notebook to his pocket. "S
o this. All three of those individuals were murdered last night in an apartment on Caroline Street. Pretty messy, too."

  "Killed? All three? What happened?"

  "I thought maybe you could tell me."

  He waited for me to answer. I played his game and waited a few seconds before saying, "Why would I know anything about it?"

  "You are the only person in Key West, or maybe in the whole world, who had a motive for killing all three."

  I waved it off like so much bullshit. "Lieutenant, you're crazy. I never so much as had —"

  He was on me faster than a hungry alley cat on a dead rat. His hands grabbed my shirt and he used his body weight to force me against the wall. He was strong, no question about it. The floor lamp rattled and so did the small table next to it.

  His lips pulled tight across white teeth and his jawline hardened. He snarled, "Don't you ever call me crazy, you fucking lowlife cocksucker. What's crazy is you thinking you could just trot over there and kill all of those people, and then thinking you could skate away from it."

  I really wanted to push him off me, but I knew that would land me a one-way ticket to jail and most likely a broken nose in the bargain. His eyes bled fury, daring me to make a move.

  I caught a breath and tried for calm in my voice, hoping it would spread to him. "I didn't kill anybody. Like I told you, I was here all last night with Dorothy. She made dinner and then —"

  "I know, she made dinner and you curled up in her pussy all night long."

  Just then, my cell phone rang. I looked over at the coffee table where it lay bleating. My eyes asked Ortega if I could answer it. With a quick move, he pulled me away from the wall a little and threw me against it once more, letting go of me as he did it. I picked up my phone and swiped it on.