by Don Donovan
"Glad to see you two," he said. "This is just awful, I'm tellin' you." Silvana spotted an accent in his voice, maybe Southern, but she wasn't sure. Although she left Cuba for Miami over twenty years ago, and although her English was impeccable, she still had a hard time placing accents.
They showed him their IDs. "I'm Detective Sergeant Machado, sir. And this is Detective Vargas. We understand you heard the shots."
He ran a hand across his stubbled face. "Thass right. I's watching Judge Judy on TV here in the back when all of a sudden I heard these two loud pops. Sounded like they came from down the end of the row, you know? I turned the volume down on the TV, but I didn't hear any more."
"Then what did you do, sir?" Silvana asked.
He looked at her through red eyes. "Well, I got up, of course. An' I went to the window an' saw this dark sedan driving past the office at a pretty good clip. Comin' from that end of the row, you know, where I heard the pops."
"Can you describe the car?"
"Looked like it mighta been a Nissan. Not too old. Black, or maybe dark gray. Hard to tell. It went by pretty fast, you know?"
Vargas said, "What about the driver? Can you give us a description?"
"Mmm, I don't think —" He paused, then he quickly said, "But wait, now, I did see there were two of 'em in the car. Thass all, though. Couldn't tell you any more about 'em."
"Were they both males? Or was one of them a female?" Vargas asked.
"Mmm, like I said, can't tell you any more'n I already have. Sorry."
"Okay, then what happened?" Silvana said.
"I went down to the room. The door was cracked just a little, so I pushed it all the way open and saw the guy on the bed, saw all the blood. Thass when I called the police."
"How about the registration?" Silvana said. "What name did he use?"
"Well, lessee," he said. He pulled out a book with lined pages, which check-ins had to actually sign. Running a gnarled finger down the list of signatures, he stopped at the last one. "Here it is."
Silvana looked at it. "Eric Clapton", it read.
"How much did you charge him?" she asked.
"The normal rate. Forty dollars. For two hours."
"Did he have anyone with him? A girl, maybe?"
"Shoot, I s'pose he did. You know, a lot of 'em do come here with young ladies for one thing or another. But I didn't see any girl this time. She musta been in the car when he checked in. Thass how it is with most of 'em, you know. The girl stays in the car."
"Car? You mean the Lexus?" Vargas asked.
"I don't know. I didn't see what car they drove up in. Just assumed they drove up in something. That big white car down there. Looked like a Lexus, so I guess it musta been that one. I c'n tell you, though, I seen that fella before."
"You have?" Silvana said, eyebrows shooting skyward.
"Oh, yeah. He's been here at least ten, twelve times."
"In what period of time, sir? I mean, how long has he been coming here?"
"Wa-a-al, I'd say prob'ly in the last six months or so. Yeah. The last six, seven months."
Silvana checked the register and noted "Eric Clapton" had checked in approximately once every two weeks or so over the last few months. She handed him a card. "Here's my number, sir. If you can think of anything else, and I mean anything, please give me a call. Thank you for your cooperation."
"Oh, you bet! Always glad to help the police. You know, my brother was a cop back home in Tennessee. Always glad to help."
Silvana cracked a smile. I was right, she thought. He's from the South.
3
Silvana
Miami, Florida
Friday, March 30, 2012
4:20 PM
BACK AT HEADQUARTERS, Silvana and Vargas stood uneasily in Santos's office. He did not invite them to sit in the two chairs facing his desk. Even though the air conditioning was doing its job, he still reached for the little fan which sat on a nearby file cabinet, flipping it to a higher setting. It blew directly at him, rustling a little of his thick hair.
"I don't have to tell you two what this means. Harvey was the most powerful member of the County Commission, in some ways more powerful than the mayor. Whenever the Governor is in town, they play golf together. One of our United States Senators considers him a personal friend and counts on him to deliver the Miami-Dade County vote in every election."
Silvana spoke up. "Sir, he was also the same guy who gave us all kinds of shit last year, threatening us and everything, over that Little Havana bloodbath where that young girl was killed."
Santos put on his no-bullshit look. "That's ancient fucking history, Machado. And you'd better treat it as such. One of the most powerful men in South Florida is shot to death in a cheap motel and we're going to respond with everything we've got." His voice boomed through the office and out into the hallway. "I'm assigning you two to this case. And I'm counting on you to get to the bottom of it without delay. The Miami Herald is going to splash this all over their front page for God knows how long."
"Yes, sir," she said.
"Now, do you have any preliminary ideas about who might've done it? What about the whore? Could she have set him up?"
"It's possible, sir," Silvana said. "The manager said he saw a car pull away right after he heard the shots and two people were in it. So it might have been the whore and the shooter. Although there doesn't seem to be a motive for a whore to kill him. We don't know at this point."
"Sounds pretty iffy. Any other ideas?"
"Well, offhand, sir, I'd say we should start looking at Maxie Méndez."
Santos clasped his hands together and steepled his index fingers. "You mean because of his involvement with that shopping center deal?"
"Yes, sir," Silvana replied, remembering Harvey's brother, a local real estate developer who had filed permits for a large shopping center near the racetrack. She had discovered the brother was merely a well-disguised front for Bob Harvey himself who, as it turned out, had crawled into bed with Maxie Méndez on the deal. She said, "Maybe Méndez pushed Harvey a little too hard and Harvey pushed back. Even though Harvey was a powerful guy around here, Maxie doesn't like to get pushed." She was well aware of Méndez's power and his willingness to use it in his criminal enterprises.
A nod from Santos. "Yes, that may be. He might well have overreacted. Follow up on it."
"Sir," Vargas said.
"What is it, Detective?"
"Méndez operates out of Hialeah. Out of our jurisdiction. The Hialeah PD isn't gonna do shit for us. They hate everything having to do with Miami."
"You're saying … you can't get to him, Detective Vargas?"
Silvana knew her partner had stepped in shit. She said, "What Bobby means, sir, is Méndez is invulnerable because he has the Hialeah PD in his pocket. And procedure says we have to have their okay if we want to —"
"Goddammit, Machado, I know what the procedure is! I don't need you to tell me." His fist pounded the desk to underline "you". Again, the sound flew into the hallway. Silvana's head went down, but only a little. In a much calmer, more deliberate voice, Santos said, "Do whatever you have to do. You've done it before. Now get the fuck out of my office!"
≈ ≈ ≈
Silvana and Vargas left the building and headed for their respective cars. "See you Sunday," Silvana said, referring to their weekly dinner date where they divvied up their collections. And this was Friday, which meant collection day, so she hit the streets before heading home. But first, an important phone call. She punched up a number and got an answer on the first ring.
"Flaco," she said. "Sergeant Machado."
"Yeah, what the fuck you want?"
"Is that any way to talk to an old friend? We haven't spoken in a while and I just wanted to check in with you. How are you doing?"
"I'm awright," he said with absolutely no enthusiasm.
"Meet me in our usual spot," she said. "Twenty minutes."
"Hey! Wait a minute! I'm in the middle of somethin' here
!"
"Twenty minutes." She ended the call.
≈ ≈ ≈
Twenty-five minutes later, she arrived at the Bay of Pigs Museum, a smallish, attractive building in a quiet neighborhood of Little Havana, Southwest Ninth Street off 18th Avenue. The place celebrates the valor and tragedy of the fateful day in 1961 when a CIA-backed invasion of Cuba turned into disaster. An open-air alley ran next to the building, and when she pulled up out front, Flaco stood in the alley, smoking a cigarette.
She parked and got out of the car. As was their custom, Flaco remained in the alley and she went to him.
"Flaco, Flaco, Flaco." She put on a tight smile.
Like his name suggests, Flaco was a skinny fucker. Skinny, but not gangly or awkward. He was well-proportioned for his weight, and he even showed a little muscle tone, or as much as a guy his size could show. She had heard from reliable sources he could take care of himself against much bigger opponents.
"Yo, Machado," he said. "Long time, no see." He took a big drag on his cigarette.
Silvana said, "Not so long. Last I heard, you've moved up to number two man behind Jimmy Quintana, right after Jimmy moved up to Maxie Méndez's number two."
"So?"
"Well, a street guy like yourself doesn't make such a move so quick, doesn't get to be the right hand man of Maxie Méndez's top crew chief, unless he gets a little help from somebody. You know, like an unseen hand?"
"What the fuck —"
"Quit pretending like you don't remember, maricón. My partner and I got Yayo Dávila out of the way last year so Quintana could move up into his slot and take you with him. Time to show some appreciation."
"I ain't no snitch, you know what I'm sayin'?"
Silvana's tone downshifted to soft, motherly level. "Of course you're not, Flaco. You're one more guy who's trying to get by. I know that. You know that. I just need a little information right now and it's not going to cost you anything. Nobody's going to get hurt. Nobody's going to get busted."
"I ain't no fuckin' snitch!"
Her tone remained calm. "I'm not asking you to snitch, to rat anybody out here. Like I told you, nobody's going to get pinched, ¿me entendés? All I want to know is anything you can tell me about this shopping center Maxie's involved in. Loma Linda. The big one over by Hialeah Park."
"You mean the one they buildin' now?"
"That's the one."
"Well, like, what are you lookin' for? I don't know nothin' 'bout construction or any of that, you know what I'm sayin'?"
"I need to know how deep Maxie's into it. I need to know how tight he is with Phil Harvey, the developer, whether they had any differences between them, maybe had words? Phil Harvey's brother is — uh, was — Bob Harvey, County Commissioner. He was found dead today with two bullets in him at a motel on Biscayne Boulevard. I need to know if Maxie was behind it."
"Shee-it, you don't want much, do you?"
"Like I said, you're not ratting anyone out, except maybe Maxie, if he had Bob Harvey clipped."
"Yeah, Maxie. The guy I work for. No fuckin' way am I gonna rat him out."
"You work for Jimmy Quintana, Flaco. Look at it this way. If Maxie did it and we put him away, Jimmy becomes top dog and you move up with him."
"I ain' lookin' to move up right now, you know what I'm sayin'?"
"Just get me a clear picture of Maxie's involvement in all this, the shopping center, the Harvey brothers, everything."
"Whatchu gonna do for me?"
She said, "That depends. What do you want?"
"I'll think of somethin'."
"Well, don't think too long. I need this information, like, yesterday."
Flaco took one final drag on his dwindling smoke and flipped it away. It landed in the alley in a little burst of orange sparks. "I dunno if I can get you any of that shit, man. That's way outa my league."
"Just get me what you can. Jimmy ought to know a few things. But remember, what you get me will determine what I will do for you. You do for me, I do for you, you know? I hold up my end."
Silvana turned and went back to her car. He hollered after her, "What if I can't find out nothin'?"
"You will. Or else Detective Vargas is going to pay you a little visit when you least expect it."
She started her car, but before pulling away, she checked her mental list of collections. At this hour, no matter which way she went there was going to be heavy traffic. So she headed west.
First up: Desi Ramos at Dolphin Mall.
4
Desi Junior
Miami, Florida
Saturday, December 28, 1996
11:15 PM
FOR HIS SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY, Desi Ramos's father, Desi Senior, let him do his first coke deal. Usually, Dad handled these on his own, taking along one or two of his men for protection. But Desi had been after his father to let him do a deal on his own. He wanted to prove himself, to make Dad proud.
Father and son met late that night at a warehouse on Panama Way near the Port of Miami. Winter had arrived in south Florida, a refreshing breeze floated in from the sea, and the annual snowbird invasion was in fourth gear, meaning the drug sales curve took its usual sharp, upward spike.
Dad incorporated him into the organization early. A lookout at twelve, a runner at fourteen, and now this. Desi did what he could to tamp down his excitement over this important assignment, this rite of passage. Tonight was the biggest moment of his life, and he better not fuck it up.
There were three of them: Desi Senior, Desi Junior, and Alicia López, Desi's sixteen-year-old sidekick. Actually, "sidekick" was too demeaning a word. Even though she was six months younger than Desi, her credentials in the drug world were actually far more valid than his. Where tonight was Desi's first true deal, she had been moving weight for over a year now, hustling up whatever business she could without getting in anyone else's way. There was this gang of teenage girls calling themselves Las Brujas, the Witches, operating in East Hialeah, Desi's old neighborhood. They controlled a lot of the dope moving through that part of town and they would have certainly extracted a hefty tax from this young upstart if they had known about her. But Alicia knew where they operated, knew all the corners and alleys and empty lots they controlled, so she made it her business to go where they weren't, staying well below their radar.
Standing five-six, she was slim and dark, temporarily caught in that in-between stage with her beauty not yet fully emerged, but beginning the process of shedding her tomboy past.
Desi, at five-eleven, was hard-muscled and unafraid, a veteran of many street altercations, accustomed to the use of force when he figured it necessary. He had watched Dad's rise in the drug business over the last several years and he knew the importance of tonight. Alicia was solid. He knew she wouldn't let him down, wouldn't flinch if things went south.
Both he and Alicia were born and raised in Hialeah, tight friends since elementary school, although she refused to quit school with him in the eighth grade. Her drug activities never could sour her on her thirst for learning, the quenching of which often gave her a rousing sense of accomplishment.
The trio stood on the driver's side of Desi's Dodge Durango. Dad held a leather briefcase containing two keys of coke. His thick voice cut the quiet night. "You're gonna take this to Liberty City. A coupla niggers are gonna meet you, one of them is called Bebop. They'll be waiting for you in the parking lot of an apartment complex. It's on Northwest 61st Street just off 13th Avenue. First apartment complex on your left after you cross 13th. Three stories high. They'll be in a black Lexus SUV. Got it?"
Desi's shoulders were relaxed and he showed a lot of calm for this, his first important work. "Bebop. Northwest 61st off 13th Avenue, first apartment complex on the left. Three stories high, black Lexus SUV."
"Right. Now, remember, make them show you the money first," he said. "Then, and only then, do you open this briefcase." His words hung in the fresh, breezy air. Desi and Alicia nodded. "One of them will produce a knife. Don't be startl
ed, don't make any moves that might set them off. He only wants to make a small cut in one of the packages to pull out a little bit of the coke for testing. Once he's satisfied, one of his friends will give you the money. That's when you give him this briefcase."
"Do I count the money right there?" Desi asked.
"No. It will be in banded packets. Pull one out and look through it and make sure they're all hundreds. Each packet should hold ten grand."
"Then what?"
"Then you back away and get in your vehicle. Remember, back away, got it?"
They both nodded and Desi said, "Back away."
"That's right. They'll be backing away, too. They shouldn't try anything after the deal goes down, but you have to be ready in case they do. Take this." He gave Desi a Springfield .357 SIG semiauto.
"Dad, this is your piece. I can't take that. It's yours."
"Take it. And hope to God you don't have to use it. Give it back to me when you come back with the money." Desi nodded. Dad turned to Alicia. "You holding, mi hija?"
"Yes, sir," Alicia said, and she reached under her long sweatshirt and pulled a huge Dirty Harry-sized revolver out of her waistband. One biiiiiiig motherfucker. It looked almost as big as she was, but she handled it with ease, fully in control.
Desi's eyebrows shot up. He didn't know Alicia owned such a lethal piece. He figured she had some girl type of weapon, like maybe a .25 or a .32 or some little thing like that, but this fucking cannon?
"Is that … is that a .44 Magnum?" he asked her.
""That's the one," she said.
"Where the fuck you get that?"
"Last week. On the street. I got it off a girl who didn't want to give it up." Alicia's smile told all.
"One more thing," Dad said. "Be careful driving away. You're still in Niggertown, remember, so watch for anyone following you or pulling up beside you. Take the quickest fucking route out of there. And come straight back here. To this spot. No stopping off anywhere."
