by Don Donovan
Over in the corner, a black girl sat with her head between her knees next to a pile of vomit. Alicia never did get a look at her face, but she knew she didn't want to. The rest of her was emaciated, bones about to protrude through her thin skin. Alicia thought she spotted red tracks on the girl's left arm.
Another girl, also black, came up to her. She looked about thirty but was probably younger, dressed like a hooker with curvy tits aching to pop out of her skimpy top and tight, white shorts holding her generous ass in as best they could.
"Whatchu doin' here, baby?" she asked.
"Waiting to call my lawyer," Alicia said.
"Waitin' to call your lorya? Ha! Y'all hear dat. She waitin' to call her lorya!" That got a minor rise out of a few of the girls.
"What are you doing here?" she asked the girl.
The girl addressed the crowd. "Ha! She axin' me what I be doin' here!"
Another girl spoke up. "Tell her, Laquita." Yet another: "Tell her why you here, baby."
Laquita looked straight at Alicia and said, "It don't matta why I'm here. What matta is, I gon' be outa here long before you. My man comin' here right now to go my bail, you feel me, bitch?"
Another rise from her audience. Laquita was now playing to the amen corner. She said, "And when he come, he gon' take me to a fancy-ass restaurant and we gon' sit down and have us a fancy-ass dinner. And all the while, yo' sorry high-toned Cuban ass is gon' be sittin' here in this cell waitin' for your motherfuckin' phone call."
More amens and rising cheers. Laquita turned to her crowd, smiling and strutting around, a jailhouse substitute for taking a full bow at the waist.
Alicia turned away from her, wishing this sleazy whore would disappear, actually hoping her "man" would come and get her fat ass out of here so she wouldn't have to look at her anymore.
The girl went on a little longer about how Alicia was a sorry Cuban bitch who was gonna get what was coming to her, one way or another. The others in the cell were getting a little more worked up now, and Alicia feared mob mentality might soon take over. They were certainly susceptible to it.
She walked over to the bars where the Cuban girl stood looking past them into the dank, empty hallway. No guards in sight. She said to the girl, "You okay?"
No response.
Again: "You okay?"
"Mind your own business, bitch! Get away from me!"
Alicia moved down a little way, staying close to the bars to call for help more easily in case Laquita's mob got unruly. She assessed her situation.
Where did all this come from? she thought. What do they have on me? Did someone rat me out? Were they following me? Did I make a mistake with the money? All of the above? What the fuck …
Footsteps down the hall. A dyke guard. "López," she called out.
"Here!" Alicia said.
The guard opened the cell and cuffed her, then escorted her out.
"I don't know how you did it," the guard said.
"Did what?"
"You didn't even get your phone call yet, and already you got a federal judge to arraign you and you made bail. You're on your way out."
In the outer reception area, Reese Kilgore awaited. Various Feds and guards stood nearby, but he virtually took up the whole room. He stood only five-ten, but his presence was much bigger, commanding attention from all sides. His age: somewhere south of fifty.
The guard removed the cuffs and returned a plastic bag containing her belongings. Kilgore escorted her out.
She desperately wanted to talk but Kilgore shushed her until they got to his car in the parking lot adjacent to the Federal Detention Center.
Once they were inside, he started the car and got the AC going. He said, "Your driver called me. I was able to find a federal judge today. He set your bail and we posted it."
"Mother of God! Thank you, Reese," she said.
"Don't thank me yet. You're in deep trouble. They've got you on some serious charges and you could be looking at fifty or sixty years in federal prison."
"What do they have?"
He pulled out of the parking lot and headed for her home on Star Island. "They haven't disclosed it yet. They will in the next week or so. But you can be sure they have something very substantial, or they wouldn't have made those serious charges against you."
She became animated. "Shit, what are we going to do? I can't go to prison. I can't do —"
"Calm down," he said, patting her arm. "Let's wait and see what they've got. Then we'll plan our strategy. This game is far from over. It's just beginning. And we've got moves of our own we can make. Meanwhile," he said at a stoplight, drilling her eyes with his own, "do not talk to anybody about this. Got it? Nobody. You say nothing to nobody."
"Not even my husband? I mean, he's got to know."
"You can tell him. But nobody else. Tell me you understand this, because this is critical."
"I got it," she said.
"All right. My fee for this will be a hundred thousand dollars, payable in two days. Another two hundred thousand if we go to trial. Agreed?"
She was steeped in shit and he had the golden lifeline. How could she say no?
48
Logan
Key West, Florida
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
7:05 PM
VANNA WHITE STOOD BY THE LETTER BOARD while the letters lit up. The contestant had bought an E and Pat Sajak solemnly said, "There are five Es." Vanna touched the five illuminated squares and they each revealed an E. The puzzle consisted of three words.
The board now looked like this:
_ _E
_ E_ _E_ _EE
_ _ L _ _
"The first word's gotta be 'the'," I said.
"It doesn't have to be," she said. "It could be 'she' or … or … or something. Could be, like, She Believes In Me."
"I think it's probably 'the'. So it could be 'The Release …' or 'The Lebanese …' or …"
"Remember the category," she said. "Song title."
" 'The Seabreeze …'. Oh shit, I don't know yet."
The contestant didn't know either, mumbling something about a bumblebee, and Pat moved it along to the next contestant, an older woman. She spun the great wheel, it landed on one thousand dollars, and she said "T, Pat."
"Well," Pat said, "you're gonna like this. There are three Ts."
Vanna touched the squares again and now the board said:
T_E
TE_ _E_ _EE
_ _LT_
Dorothy shouted out, "Uh, uh … 'The Tennessee Waltz'!" The contestant said it at almost the same moment and there was great applause. The woman picked up a fast three grand and Pat congratulated her.
I said, "You always get these puzzles. I don't know how you can see the solution so fast with just a few letters up there."
She nuzzled my neck with her round face and rubbed her big chest on mine. She meant business and I was getting ideas when the knock at the door came. It wasn't a knock, really, more like a thud. The cop thud.
I stood up, straightened out my shirt, and went to the door. There stood two guys, obviously cops, one bigger than the other, but both very solidly built. The smaller of the two, who was about my height, spoke.
"Logan?" I nodded. He said, "We're police officers. I'm Sergeant Vargas, this is Detective Acevedo. We'd like to talk to you."
"You got ID?" I said.
Reluctantly, they pulled out their tin. Miami PD. It came back to me. The guy who spoke, Vargas, was here last year for the Chicho incident in Little Havana. He had a dyke partner with him then. For a second there, I wondered what became of her. I didn't like this at all.
They moved in to the apartment without being invited. What is it with these Miami motherfuckers? Think they own the fucking world. Think they can just barge in anytime they get the notion.
"Please come in," I said, once they were past me, knowing he wouldn't miss the sarcasm. "You came a long way for this, so what do you want?"
Vargas said, "Where were you A
ugust twenty-first? A Tuesday. Two weeks ago today, to be exact."
"I don't remember."
"Well, think about it. Where were you?"
"I don't remember."
The one he called Acevedo said, "We'll haul your fucking ass back to Miami, pal, and you'll remember by the time we get there, I promise you that."
I eyed him, straight into his big, chocolate-colored eyes. He was a few inches taller than me and was clearly used to intimidating people. I wasn't afraid of him, but I wasn't sure about him. If he was a psycho cop, he could do a lot of damage, especially with Dorothy around.
"I'm gonna tell you the same thing I told this guy when he was here last year with a different partner. And what I'm gonna tell you is absolutely fucking nothing. You got no jurisdiction down here and you're here without any local cops, so that means they don't know you're here. You know, our Key West boys in blue don't like out-of-town cops harassing local citizens." I looked over their shoulders. Dorothy had come into the kitchen by the door where we all stood. "Dorothy," I said, "call the chief. Tell him a couple of Miami cops are in our home throwing their weight around."
She reached for the phone and Acevedo ripped it out of the wall, throwing it across the room. It made a nasty sound as it hit the opposite wall and crashed to the floor.
Vargas said, "Still can't remember anything?"
I knew it would only get worse from here, and I didn't want anything to happen to Dorothy.
I said, "Okay, okay. Two weeks ago tonight, I was at a local bar and grill, shooting pool. I was in a nine-ball tournament."
"What's the name of this place?" Vargas asked.
"Mambo's. It's up on Frances Street, but there's no sign. You can hardly see it."
"Yeah," he said. "I know where it is."
That one caught me. How the fuck would this Miami mook know where Mambo's is? Unless … unless …
"Well, that's where I was. After the tournament, we watched the Marlins game and then I hung around for a while after closing and had a few beers with the owner."
Acevedo said, "Oh, you know the owner, do you?"
"Mister," I said, "this is Key West. Everybody knows everybody."
They seemed satisfied with that answer. Then Acevedo said, "Okay, where were you five days earlier? August sixteenth?"
I blinked, and I hoped they didn't catch it. "The … sixteenth?"
"Yeah, the sixteenth. Where were you?"
"Uh, uh … what day of the week was that?"
"It was a Thursday," Vargas said.
"I, uh … I don't remember."
"What's the matter, pal?" Acevedo said. "Didn't set up an alibi for that date?"
"I don't know what you two are getting at. I don't need an alibi for that date or for any other date, because I haven't done anything. If it was Thursday, I probably worked that day and came home that night. Dorothy and I probably watched a little TV, had a beer or two, then went to bed. I have to get up early in the morning to go to work."
Vargas said, "But you could stay out till after the bars close on Tuesday, August twenty-first, because you didn't have to go to work on Wednesday, the twenty-second? You get Wednesdays off, do you?" He looked at Acevedo. "Pretty sweet, isn't it, Ray? Getting Wednesdays off?"
"I don't get Wednesdays off," I said. "I stayed out that night because I got wrapped up in the Marlins game and then the owner and I and a couple of other guys sat around shooting the shit for an hour or two or three, I don't recall. I hadn't been there in months, and the owner and I have been friends since we were kids, so I wanted to spend some time with him. That good enough for you?"
"No," Vargas said, "but it'll do for now. Ray?"
Acevedo whipped out his cell phone and snapped a couple of fast photos of me and one of Dorothy. My objections went unheard as they left the apartment.
49
Silvana
Miami, Florida
Thursday, September 6, 2012
9:15 AM
SILVANA SWELTERED IN HER OFFICE. The air conditioning in the whole building had gone out. A couple of phone calls revealed recent budget cuts were the culprit. To save money, the AC filters were now changed every three months instead of monthly. With all the heavy use, the filter got too clogged. The system failed. Silvana cursed.
She had called Vargas in the squad room at 8 AM sharp, but he hadn't yet shown up. Ditto Acevedo. She rang Vargas' cell, woke his ass up, and told him to get to the station pronto. He and Acevedo rolled into her office, looking like shit. Like they hadn't slept in days. Drawn, ashy faces … slumped shoulders … drooping eyelids … sweat pouring down their unshaven cheeks. Miami's finest.
"Sorry to wake you fighters for truth and justice," Silvana said, grinning. "But we're supposed to show up for work at eight sharp."
"Fuck, Silvi," Vargas said. "Our asses are beat. And beat hard. We were in Key West till near midnight last night. Didn't get home till after three."
"What were you doing?" she said. "The Duval Crawl? Or was it strip joints?"
Acevedo said, "We braced Logan at his apartment. He had an alibi — sharp as shit — for Anton Kovalenko, but not for Vitali. He stumbled all over the place. I don't know why he would think we'd like him for one and not the other."
"No alibi for Vitali?" Silvana said. "Very interesting."
"He clammed up," Vargas said. "But we took cell phone photos of him. And his fat girlfriend, too."
"Photos? What for?" Silvana pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed at the sweat on her forehead.
Vargas finally showed stirrings of life in his speech. "Think about it, Silvi. This guy's a pro. Been in the life for years. Got no jacket on him in Key West or anywhere else that we could find because he's never been caught. What does that tell you?"
Silvana said, "That he's smart. He covers his bases."
"Exactly," Vargas said. He and Acevedo both stood up a little straighter. "So Ray and I, we figured a guy like that, he probably wouldn't drive his own car to Miami for the Little Havana triple homicide or to smoke the Kovalenko brothers or for any other job, for that matter. He's too smooth an operator. Why should he take the chance? Just rent a car, probably with fake ID. Use a different car for every job."
Silvana sat back in her swivel chair and smiled. "Yes … yes, I get it, Bobby."
Acevedo said, "So we went to every car rental place in Key West last night. There are eight of them. We figured he probably did all his rentals at night, so we visited all of them and showed his picture. And what do you know? The girl at Alamo remembered him from the twenty-first. She remembered him because that sweathog girlfriend of his was with him. She remembered the buck teeth. Logan used a fake name, all right, but then we asked the girl to check the sixteenth for that same name."
Silvana couldn't stand the suspense. "And?" she said.
"And," Vargas said, "he rented one that night, too."
"Holy shit!" Silvana said. "Did you have them check the night of the triple homicide?"
"We did," Acevedo said, "but no dice." He paused for great effect. "However," he added, "we checked Budget for that date and scored! The night of June 24, 2011, he rented a car from them under the same false name and brought it back the next day. Each of the three rentals, by the way, racked up a little over three hundred miles. Just enough for a round trip to Miami."
Silvana was ecstatic. "God damn! We got the son of a bitch!" Another wipe at her forehead with the handkerchief. Then a few dabs around the neck and at her hairline. Vargas and Acevedo did the same thing, using shirtsleeves.
Vargas, clearly pleased at Silvana's excitement, said, "So do we go down there and pick him up?"
"No," she said. "We won't be able to get a warrant."
"Why not? We got him cold. You just said so."
"Yeah," she said. "We got him cold. And we know that. But the State Attorney is gonna need more than that to okay a warrant. When you look closely at it, we really don't have any evidence. Just because he rented cars on the nights of these killings do
esn't put him at the scene, doesn't give him a motive, doesn't give us any forensic evidence. He had no connection whatsoever to either of the Kovalenko brothers. We've got nothing."
Acevedo said, "But … but what about the calls from the throwaway phones with Miami numbers?"
"So he got a couple of phone calls from Miami. So what? It doesn't mean shit. The State Attorney will laugh in your face if you try to present that as evidence of murder one."
The two detectives' shoulders slumped again. They slurred a few curses.
"Hey, you guys," Silvana said. "Listen, you did good work. We now know this motherfucker is our man. We just got to pin him down a little more. Maybe with a clean link to Laura Lee Sánchez."
"Yeah … mmnh … clean link … mmnh …" they murmured as they stumbled out of Silvana's office.
50
Laura Lee
Little Havana, Miami, Florida
Saturday, September 8, 2012
3:05 AM
HER DREAMS, TENSE AND VIOLENT, caused her to thrash about in bed and make loud, feral noises. Fuzzy shot upright from a sound sleep and saw her arms flailing in all directions.
"Laura Lee! Laura Lee, honey! Wake up. You're having a nightmare. Wake up!" He shook her to consciousness.
She sat up instantly with wild eyes and a wide open mouth. Fuzzy jostled her again and she finally came awake. She was drenched in sweat. Drool ran down her chin, dripping onto the sheet. Her whole body tensed.
"I … I … what…" She gave her head a couple of hard shakes and gasped for breath.
"It's okay, honey," Fuzzy said, holding her shoulders still. He flipped on the bedside lamp. "You were just having a bad dream. It's okay."
"Dream? Dream?"
He said, "Yes, a dream."
"It was no dream. They're here!" She dabbed at her face with the sheet to soak up the sweat and drool, then reached to her nightstand for a Dilaudid. A few pre-cut halves lay on top inside the bottle. She shook one loose and popped it, washing it down with an urgent swallow of water.
