by Reinke, Sara
He and Mueller watched as a team of crime scene technicians combed through the marshes on either side of the narrow two-lane highway, while others worked within a narrow portion of pavement that had been roped off with yellow plastic tape and strategically arranged squad cars. In either direction, traffic had been rerouted so they could work without distractions or possible further contamination of the scene.
Not that things could get much worse than they were. Mess was putting it mildly.
Alligators, birds and other marshland animals had gotten a hold of what was left of Miguel Torres, and in doing so had managed to scatter bits and pieces of him all over the asphalt and surrounding woodlands and swamp. In fact, so far they could only speculate that the body was indeed that of Torres; this was the name on the driver’s license in his wallet, and the person to whom the nearby abandoned motorcycle had been registered.
The body had been reported by a passing motorist, who had mistaken it for that of a wild boar or something equally sizable obstructing the roadway. When the police had arrived, they’d had to call in game control officers to extricate several large alligators from the corpse—and the gators had been none too pleased to be removed.
“A couple more hours, there wouldn’t have been anything left of him but a smear,” Mueller said, watching as the coroner’s office continued the laborious process of trying to place all of Torres’s mutilated remains into a body bag.
His motorcycle had been found lying on its side, just off the side of the road, as if it had skidded there…or had been unceremoniously hidden from view. Elías had also noted two distinctive sets of skid marks at different spots along the road, light at first, then each growing darker, indicating braking. He speculated that Torres had either met someone out there on a second bike, or someone had followed him. Either way, they’d both stopped in a hurry.
“You think this was an accident?” Elías asked, glancing at Mueller.
“Not a chance.”
“Think it has anything to do with the Ramirez case?”
Mueller nodded grimly. “I’m willing to bet, yeah.”
“Yeah,” Elías agreed. “Me too.”
Miguel Torres had been one of three primary suspects in Enrique Ramirez’s murder. The other two were Pepe Cervantes and Tomás Lovato. Torres and Lovato were Pepe’s chief lieutenants in the Bayshore area. Neither of them ate, slept, breathed or shit without Pepe’s okay, and Pepe seldom went anywhere on Los Pandilleros business without one or both of them.
In the immediate aftermath of the Ramirez murder, they’d been brought in for questioning along with several other prominent members of Los Pandilleros, based solely on the fact that they sported Christ tattoos like the one Pilar had described. But all of them had known better than to admit to anything and had “lawyered up,” complete with alibis that had seemed irrefutable and ironclad. Without any physical evidence to connect them to the shooting—or Pilar’s positive identification of them, which to date, she’d refused to provide—there had been no way the three could be formally charged.
“So what time does that motorcycle shop of Ramirez’s open up?” Mueller asked.
Elías glanced at his watch. “If memory serves, probably right about now.”
“You feel like taking a trip downtown?” Mueller asked.
Elías watched as a swarm of black flies rose in a loud, buzzing cloud as a crime scene tech hefted what was left of Miguel Torres’s right leg out of the shallow, stagnant water while another snapped a rapid series of photographs, as dedicated and proficient as any Hollywood paparazzo. Scraps of skin dangled down like ribbons, fluttering in the breeze, and the broken edge of bone jutted out from the ragged stump like an accusatory finger.
“Sure, I can handle it,” he said.
Mueller nodded again, trying a second sip at his coffee; again, his face twisted and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Goddamn it!” Then, with a glance at Elías, he added, “See you back at the office, then.”
****
Valien Cadana had made it no secret in the past that he neither trusted the police nor appreciated their ongoing interference in his life or business affairs. Thus, Elías wasn’t particularly surprised by his reaction that morning when he arrived at Ramirez Moto. The shop had just opened for the day, and only Valien and a couple of other mechanics were on hand—a smaller, wiry-looking Hispanic kid and a very large, very bald, very intimidating-looking black guy who Elías decided at first glance not to piss off.
“Hey, Valien,” Elías called, walking away from his car. There were three garage bay doors, but only one stood open, and from the doorway, Valien turned to face him. “Qué tal?” he asked—how’s it going?—while simultaneously withdrawing his wallet, then turning back the leather flap to flash his badge within view. “You remember me? Elías—”
“Velasco. Yeah.” Valien glanced from the badge back to Elías’s face. In response to Elías’s light inquiry, he said, “It’s going.” Then his brows narrowed, his dark eyes sharp and suspicious. “What can I do for you?”
“You mind if I ask where you were last night?” Elías asked. “Then letting me take a look at your motorcycle’s tires?”
“Get a warrant, chota,” the short kid snapped, using derogatory slang for cop as he tromped across the garage toward Valien and Elías.
“Basta, Téo,” Valien murmured, holding up his hand and stopping his friend in midcharge. Enough.
Elías recognized the younger man now, by bad attitude if nothing else, from past visits to the shop.
Glancing back to Elías, Valien said, “I was home last night.”
“I’ll vouch for him.” The black man stepped forward now, his brows furrowed, the muscles bridging his shoulders and neck straining with tension beneath the strap of his tank top. He spoke funny, a clipped, nasal, nearly mechanical sound, and his gaze seemed peculiarly fixated on Elías’s mouth. “I live next door to him. He helped me with my bike until after eleven.”
“I don’t know what’s going on, but my motorcycle is right over there.” Valien nodded once, indicating a black bike parked in front of one of the closed bay doors. “Do whatever you need to. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Gracias.” Elías walked over to the bike and squatted beside the rear tire. He heard the soft crunch of shoe soles against concrete behind him.
“You going to tell me what this is all about?” Valien asked.
“Nope.” Before he left the scene, Elías had carefully measured the tire tracks he’d found on the road. One set had matched up with the wheel base and tread of Torres’s abandoned bike, but the other hadn’t. As the quality of daylight improved, Elías had snapped a couple of photos of the skid marks on his cell phone, and slipped it from his pocket to compare them to Valien’s ride. He’d used a ballpoint pen for scale in the shots and set it down beside Valien’s back tire now for accuracy.
Miguel’s bike had a wheel base of 57 inches. As Elías measured now, using a pocket-sized tape measure, he realized Valien’s bike had the same measurement from front to rear axis. The second bike at the scene, however, had been slightly smaller, with a wheel base of only 56 inches. And although not entirely clear either in person or digital image, it didn’t take a forensic expert to see that Valien’s tire treads were different than those Elías had found at the crime scene.
“Where’s the motorcycle the big guy said you two were working on?” he asked, tucking pen, phone and tape measure back into his pockets as he stood.
“Jackson’s? It’s inside.”
Elías looked past Valien’s shoulder. The black man, Jackson, stood outside the open bay door with Téo, both of them grumbling together, arms crossed over their chests. “You mind if I take a look at your bike too?” he called. Although Téo looked over at the sound of his voice, to his surprise, the bigger man did not.
“He’s deaf,” Valien said. “You have to get his attention. He’ll be able to read your lips.”
“You mind if I look at your bike?” Elías tr
ied again once Jackson had looked in his direction. Jackson shrugged one broad shoulder, his expression put upon, nearly bored. With this implied consent, Elías slipped his sunglasses from his face and stepped into the garage.
It smelled like metal and grease inside. Jackson’s bike was a blue and silver model similar in design to Valien’s. Close enough, in fact, to share the same wheel base specifications. With a thoughtful frown, he looked over his shoulder to Valien, who had followed him wordlessly inside. “Ever hear of a bike with a 56-inch wheel base?”
“Sure.” Valien looked puzzled by the question. “All kinds. Earlier model 650s had them pretty standard.” Because this was Greek to Elías, and apparently obvious on his face, he added, “Suzuki 650 street bikes.”
“You got one in here I could take a look at?” Elías asked.
Valien shook his head. “If you’d come around this time yesterday, I would have. Just finished refurbishing one.”
Because this sounded weirdly coincidental to Elías—too much so—he arched his brow. “Yeah? For who?”
“My sister,” Valien replied. “You remember Pilar?”
Elías blinked in momentary surprise, then forced himself to answer as nonchalantly as he could. “Sure. Yeah. She’s, uh, been doing okay?”
“Pilar’s fine,” Téo said, his footsteps echoing hollowly against the inside of the garage as he crossed the smooth concrete floor toward them.
I’m nobody’s girl, Pilar had told Elías only yesterday, but be that as it may, there was no mistaking the look of possessive ire in Téo’s dark eyes or the stern set of his mouth.
No te metas, that look clearly imparted. Mind your own business. Or in this case, Back the hell off of Pilar.
“I’ve got an idea, chota,” Téo remarked. “How about instead of dicking us around, you try busting Pepe Cervantes for the murder of Enrique Ramirez? That’s supposed to be your fucking job, even though it’s been a year already, and you still can’t—”
“That’s enough, Téo,” Valien told him, clapping his hand against the younger man’s arm. Immediately but begrudgingly cowed, Téo fell silent, his brows furrowed deeply as he scowled at Elías. Valien looked at Elías and it was obvious that despite his courtesy to that point, Téo had pretty much summed up his sentiments toward Elías as well. “You need anything else? Because if not, we need to get to work.”
“I’m good,” Elías replied with a nod. For now, anyway, he thought as he left the shadow-draped interior of the garage. He could feel Valien, Téo and the black guy, Jackson, boring holes into the back of his head as he returned to his car. At least until I can get out to your house, Valien, and take a look at your sister’s bike…because I assume as the one who gave it to her, you can drive it too.
****
Estela Cadana Marcos was youthful-looking for her age, and Elías could tell that in her prime, she’d been every bit as breathtaking as her daughter. Dressed in a loosely fitting floral robe, her hair sleepily askew, she answered the front door after he rang the bell.
“Hola?” she said, her expression growing timid and fearful when he held up his badge and photo identification.
“Hola,” he said, trying his best to smile and put her at ease. “Está usted Señora Cadana Marcos?”
“Yes, that’s me,” she replied. “What’s happened? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” he reassured her, because of course, she’d be terrified at the sight of a police officer standing on her doorstep. Her husband had been murdered, his killers still unaccounted for. “I’m looking for your daughter. I’d like to ask her a couple of questions.”
He felt as anxious as Estela looked, because the last thing he really wanted to do was confront Pilar at her home. She’d recognize him from the club yesterday, if nothing else, and he was hard-pressed to decide who’d be more mortified by the encounter—her or him.
“Pilar?” Wrapping her arms around herself in a nervous hug, Estela shook her head. “She’s not here. She takes classes until two thirty every day down at the community college.”
“Did she take her motorcycle, by any chance?” Elías asked, and Estela seemed surprised that he knew about this.
“Yes,” she said, nodding, her expression bewildered. “Is something wrong? Is she in some sort of trouble?”
Elías smiled again. “No, ma’am,” he said, though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out where Pilar might really be. She’d obviously told her mother she was taking classes to cover for her work at Melaza. He didn’t know if Valien knew the truth or not, but at any rate, Pilar hadn’t been at her brother’s garage, and Melaza wasn’t open that early in the morning, which didn’t leave him now with many other options.
Where the hell did you go, Pilar? he wondered as he returned to his car, slipping his sunglasses back into place against the bridge of his nose.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pilar had left her house shortly after dawn, riding out to the ocean. She parked her motorcycle in a beachfront lot that in only another hour or two would be overflowing with swimmers, surfers and tourists, then followed the boardwalk on foot to a colorful row of seaside shops and souvenir stands. Here, chrome racks packed with neon-colored T-shirts, displays of designer knockoff sunglasses and bottles of suntan lotion and sunscreen by the gallon had already been set out for gaudy display. Pilar paused outside of one—a hand-painted sign above the door in day-glo pink curly script read LA VIDA LOCA.
The wooden hurricane shutters had been raised on the store’s open-air front, but the underlying steel security gate, which rolled down from the ceiling, remained lowered and locked. Hooking her fingers through the bars, Pilar tried to peer around racks of bathing suits, sarong wraps, T-shirts and hat displays. At the back of the store, she caught of a young Hispanic woman behind the cash register counter. From the looks of things, she was having her breakfast while waiting to open shop—in one hand, she held a takeout cup from Starbucks, and in the other, some kind of half-eaten sweet roll she was in the process of chewing.
“Hey, Chita,” Pilar called. “Let me in.”
“Hey, you,” Chita called back around a mouthful of Danish. She ducked out from behind the counter and crossed through the store, jangling a large, laden key ring in her hand. As she bent over, unlocking the gate, she said, “You look like hell.”
“I didn’t sleep much last night,” Pilar mumbled as, with a clatter, Chita rolled the gate up enough for her to duck beneath. In truth, she hadn’t slept at all. Even by the time she’d made it home, she’d still been wired on adrenaline, her entire body in an acutely alert and tense state. She’d tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, she’d relive her fight with Miguel Torres in her mind, every sight, sound, smell and sensation returning to her in vivid detail. “Where the hell were you, anyway?” she groused. “Didn’t you get my texts or messages?”
“What? No.” Chita bristled momentarily, looking defensive, but then managed a laugh. “I turned my phone off. I’m sorry. I totally forgot and haven’t even looked at it this morning.”
“Where the hell were you?” Pilar demanded again, following her back toward the cashier’s counter.
“Here,” Chita replied. “At the store. Mom and Papi are doing inventory all this week and need me to help out.”
“All week?” Pilar asked, eyes widening in dismay. “You mean every night?”
“Well, except for tonight,” Chita said. “The feeding, I mean.” When Pilar groaned, she frowned, puzzled. “What?”
“Nothing.” Frustrated, Pilar shoved her hands through her hair, mopping it back behind her ears. “It’s just…” Heaving a sigh, she said, “Valien wants me to start working over at Duke’s Place starting next week to pay for my motorcycle insurance.”
“You don’t have to work at Duke’s for that.”
“I know. But Valien doesn’t. And he’s already got everything set up, he told me. I can’t get out of it.”
Chita popped a bite of Danish into her
mouth. “Y qué?” she asked. So what?
Pilar leaned over the counter, her brows narrowing. In an undertone, in case Chita’s parents were in the stockroom in back, she said, “So it means I can’t keep working at Melaza after this week. Which means I could very well lose my chance to make that huelebicho, Pepe Cervantes, pay for what he did to my father.”
Chita studied her for a long moment, chewing. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she remarked at length. When Pilar’s eyes flashed hotly, Chita’s brows raised in gentle sympathy. “Listen to me,” she said, draping her hand lightly against Pilar’s. “I’ve gone along with this so far because I think it’s good for you, making your own money, doing your own thing. You know that. But this anger you’ve got—this hatred—it’s eating you up inside. And I’m worried about you.”
“He killed my father,” Pilar seethed. She’d never told anyone what else had happened that night, not even Chita. A part of her had died alongside of Enrique on that cold concrete floor, and there would be no measure of hatred, anger or vengeance that could ever restore or resurrect it.
“It’s Valien’s place to take care of it now,” Chita pressed.
“Valien? Seriously? He hasn’t done shit to avenge Papi. He doesn’t even care!”
“Yes, he does,” Chita said. “Of course he does, Pilar. He just doesn’t want anyone else to die. Pepe is strong—too strong—and Valien knows it. He could take our corillo anytime he wants to and there isn’t a damn thing Valien, my father or anyone else could do to stop him—any more than your father could. And Valien knows that too.”
Pilar jerked her hand away, wounded and angry. “You promised to help me. You gave me your word.”
“It’s over, Pilar,” Chita said gently, looking at her with round, pleading eyes. “Let it go.”
