STAYING ALIVE (Book Three of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  "What happened in 2009?" I asked.

  She relaxed back in her chair. Really loose now. Her third wine taking hold.

  "The New York City Ballet made her an offer she couldn't refuse. And why should she? They're the top of the fucking heap. Who wants to stay in Miami when you can be part of the New York City Ballet?"

  "So that created the opening for you in that Nutcracker thing. Okay. What happened?"

  She reached out and took my hand. Hers felt warm, accommodating. There was real affection there. Affection that maybe she hadn't been able to show in years. Her face softened. Mine softened along with it.

  "I was dancing this sequence with a male dancer. Anton Kovalenko is his name. There was this move we were supposed to execute. Very tricky move. Very dangerous. We'd rehearsed it a thousand times. Literally. I'm telling you, we rehearsed this till we were sick of it. And we had it down perfectly. Are you getting this?" Her hand squeezed mine at all the points of emphasis. I found myself squeezing back. Her eyes froze me.

  "I do get it," I murmured.

  She nodded her approval. "Anyway, we get out there on stage, in front of a full house — people were there from all over the country! — and I go into the move. I leap and he throws me way the hell up in the air and he's supposed to catch me. And he didn't. I hit the stage hard and broke my back."

  I winced. She caught it. I said, "My God, how terrible!"

  Laura Lee had another pull at her wine. Then she had my hand in both of hers. I had to admit, it felt good. She tried for a smile. I wanted it to get there, to make its way onto her face, to give her just a second or two of relief in the midst of this tale of horror. My eyes pleaded with hers to let the smile out. I even gave off a little smile myself. But she couldn't do it. She said, "They stopped the music and brought the curtain down. The only time they've ever done that in the history of the Miami City Ballet."

  "What happened? Did he do it deliberately?"

  "You're fucking right he did it deliberately." She pulled her lips back against her teeth. A pretty terrifying look, for her. "That fucking faggot was upset at my getting top billing over him. He felt since I was new to The Nutcracker and that since he'd danced it for three or four years with Cherie, his name should've been at the top of the page. In big print."

  "He did this to you … over … over billing?"

  "You have to understand the mentality here," she said, squeezing my hand tighter for emphasis. "It's not just the billing itself. It's the idea of the billing. What it represents. When you get top billing in The Nutcracker, that's a signal the company has big plans for you, they have a lot of faith in you, they're going to build ballets around you. A career turning point. He felt it should've been him, not me, who the company chose as the favored one."

  This was all very interesting, but I wasn't convinced. "What makes you so sure he did it on purpose?" I asked her. "It still might have been an accident?"

  "Remember I told you we'd rehearsed that move a thousand times? I wasn't kidding. When you do a ballet move that many times, you get to know every little corner of your partner's actions. He touches you, catches you, in the exact same way, the exact same place every single time. You know his hands by the way they catch you in the very same place on your body every time. After enough rehearsal, his hands are not even off by a half an inch. You get to know his fingers, which ones bear the brunt of the weight." She held her hands up and wiggled her fingers. "When he finally catches you, you can feel his feet spread on the stage at the exact same distance from one another. If one foot is even an inch or two closer to the other foot, you can feel it when he catches you. Do you understand this?"

  "I think so," I said. And I did think so. I wanted her to believe me.

  More wine, slowing down to a sip this time. She said, "That night, he never made the effort. Oh, he made it look good, real good. Made it look as though I had made the mistake, not him. But I knew what happened. When I came down, his hands weren't there. Not at all. They were somewhere else, just a couple of inches away. Teeny-weeny inches, you know? But far enough to allow me to hit the floor on my back. After thousands of perfect tries, he suddenly forgets where to put his hands? Ha! No way, José." She leaned forward in her chair and looked straight at me. "So what do you say, Logan? Want to help me get even?"

  I took a deep breath. Here's this woman, she had it all. Reached the top of the heap in her chosen field. Then one night, a guy deliberately causes her to break her back and end her life as she knew it. What could her life be like now? Rolling around in that fucking wheelchair all day. In all that pain and misery. Taking pills and shit for the rest of her life.

  I shot a glance at Fuzzy. "What about him?" I said. "Why not have him do it?" Fuzzy stood erect, out of earshot but well within a line of sharp vision. His eyes never left us. I wondered what his deal was in all this, where he stood with her.

  She said, "Because the minute that fucking Anton bites the dust, the cops are coming straight to me, looking for answers. They're going to pry into my entire life and harass every single person I know. All because I have such a strong motive. They'll put Fuzzy under a microscope because he and I have been lovers for years."

  Lovers for years. I took that for a quick spin around the block. She was still beautiful, despite her premature aging, certainly more beautiful than any woman who'd ever given me the time of day. Fuzzy was a big man — over six feet, it looked like. Wide shoulders and big hands. He looked like he could pick her up out of that chair like a telephone. I'm not sure I liked the idea of them being lovers for years.

  But I have to say, when her hands closed around mine, surrounding it with warmth, I shivered. Just for a split second, mind you, but a shiver all the same. Those hands of hers … they were so … stunning, so perfect, lovely to look at. You have to take my word for that.

  "So you want someone with no apparent connection to you," I said. "Like me."

  A quick nod, then, "I don't have any money to speak of, or else I'd throw that in, too. All I can give you is the promise to keep my mouth shut about what happened on Tenth Avenue last summer. And believe me, if you do this for me, I'll never even think about that night again."

  I wanted to believe her. But when you come right down to it, what other choice did I have?

  "Where can I find him?" I said.

  8

  Silvana

  Miami, Florida

  Wednesday, August 15, 2012

  8:10 AM

  SILVANA MACHADO'S FILES STRETCHED down the right side of her desk in a perfect line, only their tabs showing. She didn't use a ruler to line them up, but it looked as though she did exactly that. Eight files, eight homicides, eight killers running around loose. She didn't like killers running around loose, especially killers of women.

  The first file, the one right on top, most easily accessible, concerned one Kathy Kruger, female Caucasian, University of Miami student, DOB 2/19/92. Found Monday afternoon in her apartment on Alhambra Circle by a neighbor. Kathy was naked, hogtied in her bedroom, the rope also extending around her neck, with nineteen stab wounds. According to the ME, she was also raped after she died. The boyfriend: airtight alibi. No other leads.

  Silvana looked at the grisly photos, then at a printed selfie taken from Kathy's cell phone. The selfie showed an almost-pretty girl with ash-brown hair flowing down to her shoulders in gentle waves, eyes the color of dark chocolate, and a face that betrayed a slight weight problem that she probably carried with her throughout her short life. The crime scene photos showed something only vaguely resembling a human female. Silvana really wanted this perp. Bad.

  She carefully removed the second file from her neat arrangement, without disturbing the others. The top sheet told the story. Juanita Saavedra, Hispanic female, resident of Little Havana, DOB —

  Her phone rang. Celia.

  "Lieutenant Machado, there's a woman here to see you. She says she's an old friend of yours."

  "Who is it?"

  Celia said, "Marisol Nu
ñez."

  Marisol Nuñez. Mother of Blanca. Blanca. Who never had a chance to fulfill her dreams.

  "Tell her to come in, Celia."

  Silvana carefully replaced the Juanita Saavedra file in its assigned spot in the line on her desk and carefully re-aligned it with the Kathy Kruger file and all the rest of them. Marisol Nuñez shuffled in, looking much older than her real age, which Silvana guessed to be around fifty-five.

  She was thin and stooped, her hair showing lots of gray and not cared for very well. Her face etched with deep lines that only a long, troubled road can put there. Eyes showed a long-ago surrender. A cheap cotton dress hung from her frail body, but it looked as though she had put it on in an attempt to look respectable for the occasion.

  "Señora Nuñez," Silvana said, coming around her desk to give the woman a hug. "So good to see you. ¿Cómo le va? It has been too many years." When Silvana hugged her, the woman felt pathetically thin and frail.

  "Sí, Silvana. Demasiados años," the woman said in agreement. "I heard you were an important police official now, and I am so happy for you. You have become a great success. I hope you are well."

  "Thank you for the kind words, Señora. And yes, I am very well. How are you? Where are you living now?"

  Silvana returned to her desk chair and Marisol took the seat opposite her. "I have been sick lately. I have stomach problems and the blood pressure. But I still live in East Hialeah," Marisol said. "In our little house on East 17th Street. You remember?"

  "Oh yes, I do remember."

  And Silvana did remember. Right around the corner from where she lived with her aunt on East Eleventh Avenue. A forgotten area of Hialeah, nearly inaccessible, a showplace for bleakness and poverty.

  She remembered when Blanca and her mother were shopping in a small neighborhood market. Silvana was with her aunt and she met Blanca that day. Because they were both thirteen and they both had emigrated from Mariel in Cuba, they became best friends and stayed that way.

  She remembered Blanca teaching her how to shoplift and other petty crimes. Eventually, they attracted other young neighborhood girls and a gang swiftly formed. They were called Las Brujas, the witches, and they carried on their criminal activities, which included B&E, drug dealing, and the occasional strongarm robbery. There was little interference from the police, who had long since written off that area of Hialeah as incorrigible. Silvana and Blanca were close friends for several years during this impressionable period in Silvana's life. Until that day in the summer of '98. The day Blanca was beaten to death and dumped behind a warehouse in Hialeah. Dumped like so much garbage.

  "What brings you here today, Marisol?"

  Marisol shifted around in her chair, keeping her eyes down and her head slightly bowed. She searched her mind for the right words. Silvana sensed trouble, so she gave her all the time she needed.

  Finally: "Silvana, I want to thank you for seeing me this morning. I tried to get here early, before you got very busy with your work. I know you have many things to do here in your important job."

  "Seeing old friends is important, too, Señora. What can I do for you today?"

  "You remember Blanca's brother, Raúl?" Silvana nodded. Marisol said, "He has been murdered."

  Silvana's eyebrows shot up. "Murdered? Raúl?" Her memory of him was vague. A couple of years younger than Silvana and his sister Blanca, he never figured into their adolescence except as an irritating kid.

  "Sí," Marisol said. "Mi hijito Raúl. ¡Está muerto!" Tears made their way out of the woman's eyes. She pulled a used facial tissue from her purse.

  "What happened, Señora? Please tell me!"

  "He was murdered the night before last. In a hotel near downtown. Shot to death."

  "How terrible!" Silvana said. Then she quickly glimpsed the eight neatly-positioned files to her right. Arranged in order of importance. Kathy Kruger was number one. The tab on number eight read "Raúl Nuñez".

  Raúl Nuñez. Common Cuban name. Didn't dredge up any old memories. Nothing to really get her attention.

  She saw the file yesterday. Gave it a cursory look. Known drug dealer shot and killed in a rundown flophouse in Niggertown. Who gives a shit. Only notable fact: he was a known associate of Jimmy Quintana, Maxie Méndez's top enforcer. Beyond that, nothing. Maybe send a couple of low-level detectives down there for an hour or so to ask a few questions and then forget about it.

  Marisol said, "Silvana, you must find the person who killed my boy! You must find him! And punish him."

  "Señora Nuñez, we will do everything we can to find —"

  In one quick action, she reached across the desk and grabbed Silvana's arm. "No. Not 'we'," she said. "You. You must find him."

  Silvana tilted her head into an I-don't-know-about-that position. She grew uneasy with this line of talk, and was thinking of ways to back out of it. Marisol Nuñez wasn't buying it.

  She said, "I know you found the beast that killed my Blanca."

  "Señora, I didn't —"

  She squeezed Silvana's arm harder. Really hard. Silvana didn't know she had it in her.

  "I know, Silvana. I know you found him, ¿me entendés?" Her teary eyes burned with fury. Silvana knew she knew.

  But how could she know? How could she possibly know Silvana found the piece of shit who did that to her Blanca? How could this woman have the slightest inkling that Silvana found him in that shabby apartment in Little Havana and tied him up and peeled his face off with a machete? Silvana never told anyone, and she read in the papers the case went straight to the dung heap of unsolved crimes, but somehow, this woman knew.

  "And I want you to find whoever killed my baby boy. And give him the same justice you gave to the pig who murdered Blanca."

  Silvana was becoming more fidgety, sitting in her office in Miami PD headquarters while a woman reminded her of an incident best left buried in the swamps of the past. If someone walked in during all this —

  "Señora, I don't know what I can do. The department —"

  Another hard squeeze on the arm. This one hurt, and Silvana had a hard, gym-trained body, so she wondered where Marisol was getting the strength.

  "Silvana," she said through tear-dimmed eyes. "You must promise me. You got justice for Blanca, you must do the same for Raúl. Both my children have now been taken from me. Please, Silvanita. As his mother, I am depending on you. You are my angel. Mi ángel vengador." She refused to release Silvana's arm.

  Memories flooded Silvana's brain. All her good times with Blanca, all the times Blanca kept trying to put makeup on her when Silvana didn't want any, when Silvana herself was only dimly aware of her own attraction to women, not men. All the times Blanca would make her laugh, share her dreams, talk about the boys she was hot for.

  About thirty seconds passed as the two women formed a silent tableau in this office, this repository of Miami justice. In a lowered voice, Silvana said, "Señora Nuñez, I promise you … I will find the one who took your son from you."

  9

  Silvana

  Miami, Florida

  Wednesday, August 15, 2012

  8:45 AM

  WHILE SILVANA WAITED FOR BOBBY VARGAS to come to her office, she ran a hand across her worn wooden desk. It was Santos' old desk, the one he had before he got promoted to Captain and moved upstairs into Swankville. She was also in Santos' old office, now all hers with her new rank of lieutenant, a far cry from last spring when she was a squad room grunt. She was a sergeant back then, to be sure, but still her desk was one of many.

  This was all a long way from her youth in Cuba. After washing up in Key West on a raft at the age of eleven, and after escaping the life of crime that her membership in Las Brujas promised her, she went on to become the first female homicide detective sergeant in Miami PD history. And now she was the first woman to make lieutenant. She allowed the corners of her thin mouth to turn up juuuust a little at this thought. Then she looked back at the files in their perfect little row. One through eight.

  V
argas entered her office. Ray Acevedo was with him.

  "What's up, Silvi?" Vargas asked. He was her old partner for years and so could address her informally. Last week, they were both moved up, her to lieutenant, him to sergeant. Acevedo was also promoted from patrolman to detective.

  "Make a copy of this," she said, handing him the Raúl Nuñez file. She had put it into prime position in her neat little row of case files, on top of Kathy Kruger's. "Let's close this one out fast."

  Vargas thumbed through the file. "Who the fuck is this guy? Raúl Nuñez?"

  "You don't know him?"

  "No. Looks like he's just some scumbag drug dealer." He handed the file to Acevedo. "You know this guy, Ray?"

  Acevedo looked over the file and nodded. "I busted him last year. Traffic stop led to a marijuana bust. He had the shit sticking up out of his shirt pocket."

  "How'd it turn out?" Silvana said.

  "The State Attorney declined to pursue the charges."

  Silvana tapped a few keys of her laptop. "He's no stranger to our justice system, it appears." Her eyes snapped up at Acevedo. "Ray, get me his jacket right away. Let's look him over a little more closely."

  Acevedo nodded and left the office. Silvana waited till the door was shut, then said, "How's he doing, Bobby?"

  "A lot better than the last guy," Vargas said. "That guy was a fucking pussy, going all 'human rights' on me at every opportunity. Ray's only been with me a couple of days, but so far he's been okay. Seems like he'll get with the program."