“Are you okay?” I mumble.
“I’m fine.” Jeremy stands and grabs my hand to pull me up. “You okay?”
“Sure.” My knees feel like they are made of rubber, my heart is trying to crack my ribs, can’t breathe, can hardly talk. “What happened? Did they shoot at us?”
“’Fraid so, babe.”
Sirens overpower the sounds of music and screaming. Blue and red flashing lights join the neon confusion of the street.
“Are you hurt?” A Miami policeman stands in front of me, concern in his eyes.
“I don’t think so.” I look down and my knee is showing through my torn pants with a fresh scrape from the sidewalk.
Jeremy shows his badge to the policeman. “Some idiot drove onto the sidewalk and shot out that window.”
“Were they aiming at you?”
“Don’t know why they’d shoot at us.” Jeremy shrugs.
“Why are you here?”
“Enjoying the nightlife.” He doesn’t explain about Manuel’s mom.
“Did you see the car? Get a license number.”
“White Lexus carrying two men. Didn’t see the license.”
“Anyone you recognized?”
“Nope. Saw the gun, hit the ground. Didn’t look too hard.”
The policeman turns to me. “How about you, miss? What did you see?”
“I saw two headlights headed toward me and then a gun poking through the window and I fell on my face to get out of the way.”
“Good thing you did. You’d better go home or at least back to your hotel.”
“Did anyone get a license number?” Jeremy asks.
“Someone gave us a partial. We’ll see.”
After the officer leaves, I tell Jeremy, “I did recognize the man with the gun.”
“I know. The man from the apartment house who closed the door in my face.”
I guess neither of us wanted to spend the night in the police station answering questions.
Thursday
Chapter 26
Music penetrates my fuzzy brain—“Who Are You,” the CSI theme. I pull the covers over my head. A weight falls on top of me and the music stops.
“Hullo,” Jeremy’s voice mumbles above me.
Another stupid song starts; don’t even know what it is.
“Wake up, Pratt. That’s yours.” His weight rolls off my chest. He holds one ringing cell out to me and another to his ear.
I take mine and stare at it, not comprehending. If I answer, will it quit playing that awful music? “Hello.”
“This is Juan, remember me?” A kid’s voice cracking with puberty.
“Juan?”
“From the basketball game.”
“Oh. Juan. What is it?” I sit up and pay attention.
“You know the man you went to see? He ain’t no new guy. He’s a dealer.”
“Wow! Why would you guys send us to a drug dealer?”
“Maybe figured you’d get yourselves blown away.” He laughs.
“Yeah, maybe. Someone tried that last night.” My mouth goes dry at the thought. Or is that from too much partying and not enough sleep?
“Oh man! We didn’t mean it. Just raggin’ you. The guys sent you there as a joke.”
“Not a nice joke.”
“Hey listen! The reason I called. The new guys are in apartment 110, least some of them. Some left.”
“Thanks, Juan. I owe you.”
“Nah. Just find the kid’s mami.”
Jeremy and I reach for opposite nightstands at the same time to put our phones back. We bump heads, then he leans across, squishing me.
“You could put that on your own side.”
“More fun this way.” He kisses my forehead.
“You love my paintjob, not the real me.” I grab his hair and pull his mouth to mine. We meld together, tongues probing, heating up. Ummmmm....
“Later, Pratt.” Jeremy rolls off the other side of the bed. “We’ve got to meet Roberta Perez. Change of heart. She’s going to help us find your Cubans.”
“We don’t need her. I know where they are.”
“What makes you so smart?”
I explain my call.
“We could use Perez. She knows the neighborhood, and speaks fluent Cuban.” He pulls me up, wrapping me in his arms for another kiss. Then he lets me go and swats my bum.
“Ouch! I hurt all over this morning. I have new aches and pains. Must be from crashing to the sidewalk to avoid getting shot or maybe from your overdeveloped body landing on top of me.”
“Stay here and rest. I don’t think you should go back to that apartment building. It could be dangerous.”
“You’re not going to get rid of me that easy.” He’s right, I know. My fluttery stomach and shaky knees tell me it’s dangerous. Someone actually shot at us, for chrissake. “How can I be a PI if I can’t stand a little danger? Besides, I’ll have two cops with me.”
He looks like he’s trying to decide what to do with me. “Let’s take a shower, little girl.” Ummmm... Another shower like last night, I hope.
#
“My car or yours?” Jeremy asks Roberta in the parking lot of the police station. Neither one is in uniform. He’s wearing linen slacks and a print shirt; looks like a tourist. She’s wearing jeans and tee, looks like she belongs in the neighborhood.
“We’re walking,” Perez answers. She waves her hand at the shops along the street. “I’m a street cop, a foot soldier.”
Why is she helping when she was so reluctant yesterday?
“I’m not walking. We can park away from the building.” I open the door to Jeremy’s cruiser and slide in.
“She had a rough night.” Jeremy opens the rear door for Perez. Jeremy drives toward the apartment building, parks a couple blocks away.
“How did you know where we’re going?” Perez asks as she leaves the cruiser.
“We got a tip.” Jeremy answers.
“Why do you need me?”
“Got your gun and badge? We might need them.” I know Jeremy has a gun, too. “You also speak the language better than I do. You know these people.”
Perez puts her hand to a bulge at the small of her back. “I heard you got shot at last night. Anything to do with your search?” Ah ha! That’s why she’s here. Looking for information.
“Maybe. Seems we went to see a drug dealer yesterday, by mistake.”
“Did you recognize the shooter?”
“Could have been the same guy, not sure.”
“You didn’t tell the cops that last night.”
“As I said, I’m not sure, and we didn’t know he was a dealer. Thought the guy might be one of the group we’re looking for.”
“But he’s not?”
“Not according to the information we received this morning.”
This whole conversation between Jeremy and Roberta sounds normal. But if you watch the body language, it’s like two animals circling, establishing territory, deciding who’s d’boss.
“You two going to stand around the sidewalk bickering all morning or are we going find Manuel’s mom.” I head toward the apartment building and the two cops follow. No kids hanging in the parking lot today. Hopefully, they’re at school. Music blares inside, but most of it seems to be tuned to the same radio station. Not competing like yesterday.
“The dealer was in which apartment?” Roberta asks.
“140.” Jeremy points.
“We’ll keep an eye on him. Lots of kids in this building. Maybe we’ll haul him in about the shooting.”
Jeremy knocks on the door to apartment 110. A man answers, opening the door but leaving it chained.
Roberta talks to him in Spanish. He seems unwilling to open the door. She rattles on for awhile, almost yelling over the music. I catch the word, “Manuel.”
A gasp escapes the man in the apartment. The door flies open. “Entré.” He waves us in.
The apartment is crowded but clean, the furniture old and worn. Another man
stands in the kitchen door, looking wary. Roberta says a few words and the music stops. The Latin beat from other apartments vibrates the air, the walls, the floors. We all stand around in the middle of the living room, while the man who answered the door chatters away, practically dancing as he talks. Roberta raises her hand for silence. He stops talking.
Roberta introduces us and the man says, “I am Carlos.” He points at his silent partner. “Jose.”
“Sit, sit,” Carlos says. “Would you like coffee?” At least he speaks some English.
“No, thank you,” Jeremy and I answer together.
We sit on the couch and Roberta takes a chair next to it. The two men sit across from us and wait for us to speak. Carlos looks like he’s going to burst.
“Where is the boy’s mother?” Roberta asks.
“She has gone to the other side, where we landed.” Carlos answers in stilted English. Jose nods. I start thinking of them as talking man and silent man.
“Did anyone go with her? Where is she staying?”
“Her brother and another man who knows the area. They have family over there.”
“How did she lose the boy?” I ask.
Carlos looks puzzled, so Roberta repeats my question in Spanish. He answers in Spanish, getting excited again. They go round and round until he runs out of steam.
Roberta turns to Jeremy and me. “Did you get any of that?”
“A little,” Jeremy says.
“None,” I answer.
She explains in English. The father died in Cuba. No explanation of how. That’s when mother and son decided to leave. Manuel jumped off the boat when they were almost to the island. They looked for him but couldn’t find him. Everyone but the boy’s mother thought the child drowned. She didn’t believe he was dead and begged to return to the island. A friend from the neighborhood drove the mother and her brother to the West Coast.
“I have address,” says Jose, who’s been silent until now. He leaves the room and comes back with a piece of paper. Francisco Vasquez, with an address and phone number in Fort Myers.
“Thank you.” I stuff the paper in my pocket. “Muchas gracias.” I shouldn’t say that. They’ll think I speak Spanish.
Sure enough, Jose starts rattling Spanish at me.
“No hablo español.” I hold up my hands in surrender.
He grabs one of my hands and smiles, teeth flashing. “I speak little English. You find Maria Sanchez and bring Manuel to her, okay?” His voice is soft and musical, unlike Carlos.
“Okay. I’ll bring them together. Thank you for your help.”
“Were the two of you with them when they arrived?” Jeremy asks.
“Si,” they both answer.
“Can you tell me how you got here from Cuba?”
Perez gives Jeremy a look, then asks a couple of questions in Spanish. The two men are unenthusiastic but she is persuasive. They start talking about their trip. I can tell by hand gestures that they were on a sailboat.
“Ask about the captain’s name and the name of the boat,” I interrupt. It would be too much of a coincidence if it was Jack Farrell’s Distraction. “How many American’s onboard?”
Perez and Carlos rattle on. Jose is silent. Jeremy nods his head as though he understands. I can’t comprehend a word of the conversation. It drives me crazy. I need to learn Spanish.
Roberta explains about the Cuban’s trip in English. They took a small dingy to meet a sailboat in the middle of the night, off a deserted coastline of Cuba. They were onboard for several days and then transferred to a fishing vessel, which brought them ashore. They had no idea where they were. They did not know the name of either boat or the names of the crew. I don’t believe it. But they did say there were three men. Carlos thought he might have heard the names “Jack” and “Jorges.”
Jack Farrell and George Stark—George is Jorges in Spanish. Is it possible? Probably not; they are both common names. Even if it is, how will I ever find them?
As we leave, Roberta turns and asks something in Spanish, pointing down the hall. Jose disappears into the apartment without answering, and Carlos is visibly frightened, shaking his head. “No, no.” is his only answer.
“I take it you asked about the drug dealer,” I say to Roberta outside.
“Yes, it’s obvious they know who he is. Would you be willing to identify him as the shooter if we bring him in?”
“Would we have to stay in Miami?”
“No, I could send photos for you to pick him out. You might have to come over later for a trial.”
Damn! I don’t want to get involved in some mess in Miami, but I don’t want the creep wandering the streets shooting people, either. Or selling drugs to the kids. I look at Jeremy. He’s watching me, waiting for my answer.
“Okay, I’ll do it.” I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.
“How about you, Thorpe?” Roberta asks.
“No problem. We’re headed to Fort Myers. Send the photos to me at the sheriff’s office. I’ll touch base with Pratt.”
Chapter 27
Driving through Fort Myers feels like a million snowbirds have arrived since we left two days ago. The traffic was stop and go when we left, now it’s all stop and no go.
We both want to find Manuel’s mother before going home. The address we have is located in a neighborhood off US41, the worst highway in the whole US of A, as I’ve said before. The stoplights at almost every cross street don’t help the jam-packed herd of cars.
“Hungry?” Jeremy asks.
“Yeah.” We haven’t eaten since breakfast and it’s almost three. “How about McDonald’s?” I point across the highway. I love their fries. I could eat them three meals a day, seven days a week.
Jeremy hits a whoop on the siren and cuts across on-coming traffic to get there. We park and head inside. Jeremy orders a salad and ice tea. I get a cheeseburger, super large fries, and a milkshake.
“How can you eat healthy in a place like this?” I know he eats like a horse. I don’t see how a salad will satisfy him.
“That food you’re eating will kill you, Pratt.” Grinning, he grabs a french fry. I swipe at his hand. I munch on my delicious deadly burger while Jeremy nibbles his rabbit food. Then he goes for pie and ice cream. “Gotta have a balanced meal,” he says.
Back in the car and across the highway—this time at a light instead of Jeremy using his cop privileges. The address we’re looking for is in one of those gated, golfing communities. The guard waves us through. Cruiser privileges again. We meander around the neighborhood until we spot the house. Jeremy pulls the cruiser into the driveway. A BMW sits in the open garage. This is not Little Havana. It’s upper middle-class retired America.
A woman peeks at us through the window. She opens the door before we have a chance to ring the bell. “Were they in an accident? Are they all right?” She’s forty or fifty, short, and slightly round. Dark hair is meticulously styled, slacks and blouse are not from Walmart, and she speaks good English without a hint of Cuban accent. She doesn’t give me that warm neighborly feeling I was getting in Little Havana.
“Who are you talking about, ma’am?” Jeremy asks.
“Our friends from Miami. They were supposed to be here last night.”
“Maria Sanchez?” I remember the name Jose mentioned. Jeremy gives me a look that says he’ll do all the talking
“Yes, and her brother Felipe and a friend.” the woman answers.
“We’re looking for them,” Jeremy says.
“Oh, are they in trouble?” The woman’s expression changes from worry to wary.
“No, ma’am. Are you Mrs. Vasquez?”
“Yes.” The lines get deeper between her brows. Her eyes seem to disappear.
“People in Miami gave us your address. They said Maria Sanchez and her brother were coming here.”
“They haven’t arrived.” She backs into the room and starts to close the door.
“May we come in?” Jeremy shows her his badge. He’s in ci
vvies, but we arrived in the cruiser.
Mrs. Vasquez hesitates, then opens the door. It’s too late to pretend she doesn’t know the people we’re looking for.
“Maybe we can find out what happened to them,” Jeremy offers. “Could they have gotten lost?”
“No, the man driving knows the way.” She looks lost, standing in the middle of the room.
“Could they have gone back for something? Have you checked with people in Miami?”
“I haven’t checked.” She looks around as if wanting to escape.
“Why don’t you call your friends in Miami?” Jeremy moves farther into the room.
Mrs. Vasquez’s feet unfreeze, moving her into the living room. “Oh, please sit. Can I offer you anything?”
“No, ma’am.” Jeremy sits on the couch and I sit beside him.
She crosses the room, grabs the phone, and takes it into the kitchen. After a minute, I hear her talking in Spanish.
I look around. The walls are high and white, cathedral ceiling with dark beams. The furnishings are sparse but expensive, dark wood, white upholstery. Bright paintings, wall hangings, and a multi-colored carpet in the middle of a tile floor add splashes of color. High style, but somehow it feels cold and sterile.
Mrs. Vasquez’s voice rises in excitement from the other room. Jeremy leans toward her, listening. Again, I wish I could understand the language. She returns, frowning.
“They have not heard.” She sits in a chair across the room, about as far away as she can get.
“What did they say that bothered you?” Jeremy asks.
“Nothing. Except that they haven’t heard from them.”
“Please, Mrs. Vasquez. I know they gave you some information that disturbed you.” He then rattles off something in Spanish.
She looks surprised. “Carlos said a man in his building was upset that the police were there.”
“When we came looking for your friends?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he be unhappy with Carlos?”
Mangrove Madness: An Ernestine Ernie Pratt Mystery (Ernestine Ernie Pratt Adventures Book 1) Page 15
