by Danny Lopez
“For real?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get a ride.”
“We should meet later,” he said. “You can bring me up to speed with your new career.”
“The pub?”
“Tomorrow?”
I stepped out of the car. “I’ll check my agenda and have my secretary give you a ring.”
Brian smiled, gave me the finger, and drove away.
* * *
I called Holly.
“Where are you?” she said.
“I’m home. Why?”
“I heard you got arrested.”
“Bad news travels at supersonic speed.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Brian got me out.”
“Brian Farinas?”
“He’s the man.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” she said.
“You’re always busy. Besides, I can’t afford your rates.”
“Dexter. I would never charge you.”
“Thanks.” I really meant it. Her words touched me. And I would have called her when Petrillo and Frey arrested me, but Brian was a good friend. I knew what to expect with him. And if I’d called Holly and she didn’t answer, well? I would take that kind of thing personally. With Holly, everything was personal.
“So what was it?” she asked.
“What was what?”
“Why did they arrest you?”
I laughed. “Breaking and entering,” I said. “But listen. Is there any chance you can give me a ride to Siesta?”
“I can’t at the moment. I’m in Lakewood Ranch and then I have a meeting with a client in downtown Bradenton.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll get someone else.”
“We can meet later—”
“We’ll see. I might be in jail by then.”
I called Rachel. “I need a couple of huge favors. One is bigger than the other.”
“Ah, Dexter favors. I love Dexter favors. They can be pretty involved.”
I laughed. “This one’s simple.”
“You said two.”
“I know. Can we deal with them one at a time?”
“Shoot.”
“I need a ride.”
* * *
Rachel picked me up an hour later and drove me down to Siesta to pick up my car.
“So what’s the second favor?” she said with the kind of good humor that made me feel like no matter what we would always be best friends.
“You keep an archive of all those photos you take at events, right?”
“You mean those stupid fund-raising galas and shit?”
“I was wondering. This Mike Boseman guy has money. He’s a bit of a player in town, right?”
“I guess.”
“He must have attended some of these galas.”
“So you want me to go into my archive and do a search for pictures of Boseman.”
“Is it a lot to ask?”
“Not really. With digital files, I have everything captioned and keyworded.”
I smiled. “I’ll get some wine.”
“Wine?”
“Rum?”
She smiled and turned on Point of Rocks. “Fireball. A big bottle. And some Chinese food. Moo-shu pork and fried rice. With shrimp.”
She pulled up next to my car. I looked at Boseman’s house. “Hello?”
“What is it?” she said.
“The Jaguar’s gone.”
“So?”
“So it was there earlier today. Fucking Boseman is back or someone has access to his house.”
“Dexter …”
“Wait here,” I said. “Blow the horn like a crazy lady if anyone comes.”
“What’s going on?”
“I have to check on something.”
I ran across the street and went slowly around the side of the house to the broken door. It was exactly as I had left it, but the trash cans along that side of the house had been emptied. And today was not trash day.
I pushed the door open and peeked inside. It was dark like before, shutters still closed, locked. I walked in slowly, quiet. Nothing had changed. I went past the kitchen, past the living room to the other side of the house, and opened the garage door. There it was: the Jaguar.
What the fuck? I touched the hood. No heat from the radiator area. I wrote down the license plate number. Then I walked out of the house and ran across the street. I gave Rachel an okay sign, hopped in my Subaru, and we were off.
I stopped at a liquor store in Gulf Gate, bought two sixes of Big Top Trapeze Monk—a local white Belgian ale—a big bottle of Fireball, and ordered Chinese takeout from the place on the corner.
Rachel lived in a one-bedroom apartment on top of a garage in the backyard of an old house off Osprey Avenue. It was a neat little place, but she always complained about her landlords, always looking out their kitchen window at who came and went from her apartment. She said it cramped her style.
When I got there with the provisions, Rachel was already going through the hard drives connected to her iMac.
I set the food on the table by the kitchenette and put the beer in the fridge. “Beer or Fireball?”
“Fireball with ice. Tall.” She dragged a chair from the dining room and placed it next to her desk chair so we could both look at the computer screen.
I popped open a beer for myself and joined her. We searched the first hard drive for Michael Boseman. Two hits. She double-clicked on the images. Photoshop opened them to the full size of the screen. And there he was: Boseman, shiny and smiling at us like the happiest drunk on the planet.
I pointed to the elderly woman standing next to him. “Who’s that?”
“Doris LaPorte. She’s a socialite. She’s at all these shindigs. You can’t have a charity gala or fund-raiser in this town without her. It’s kind of creepy.”
“Rich people, huh?”
“Not her. She’s just a character.”
The next picture was the same, but it was Boseman with six other people. No one of consequence. The image dated from the time he was bringing Hollywood to Sarasota. City Councilmen loved hanging out with him. He was everywhere back then.
We went through the other hard drives. Six of them. On the last one there was a photo. It wasn’t of Boseman, but he was in it. In the background, slightly out of focus and where the light from Rachel’s flash was beginning to fall off, you could see him talking to a woman who had her head turned to the side. It looked like Maya Edwards, but it was difficult to tell for sure. There were two other people talking to Boseman. One of them was clearly Holly’s ex-boyfriend, Joaquin del Pino, the accident lawyer. The other man, I didn’t recognize.
“When was this?” I asked.
Rachel clicked a link on the drop-down menu and all the information appeared in another window: February 19 of this year. “About four months ago.”
I tapped the screen. “You know this guy?”
Rachel slapped my hand. “Don’t touch the screen.”
She leaned forward and squinted. She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
I read the caption. “Fund-raiser for BRAVO, a charity that helps children who are victims of parental and sexual abuse.”
Rachel backed away and looked at me. “Good?”
I pulled my chair back and stretched my legs. Took a long drink of beer. “I didn’t know we had a nonprofit like that in Sarasota.”
Rachel laughed. “We have a charity for everything here. And don’t knock it. Their fund-raisers put food on my table.”
“You think they’re legit?”
“Who?” She pointed at the computer with her glass of Fireball. “Those guys?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone can start a 501c. It’s nothing. Just a bunch of paperwork. Raising the money’s a whole other story. But if you’re connected and you can get Doris LaPorte to attend, you’ll do just fine.”
I leaned into the computer. The man talking to Boseman and del Pino looked Mexican. Maybe that was the
ir connection to Mexico. But I didn’t want to believe Maya was involved in anything shady. If indeed it was shady.
I had two things to look into. The first was Holly. Maybe she would spill the beans on del Pino. I also had to look up this nonprofit, BRAVO.
I pulled out another beer from the fridge and sat on the couch. On the wall across from me was a large black-and-white photograph Rachel had taken when we first worked together for the paper. It was a strong portrait of an old cattle rancher in Myakka, a few miles east of town. He was a real cracker. Inherited his ranch from his father who inherited it from his father who was an original homesteader back at the turn of the century. Development had encroached all around him and the taxes on the land were killing him. The photo was taken at dusk. He was leaning on a fence and looking out at something. His eyes had a look of real hurt, but also of resolve. You could see in his face that he’d been through hell and back, and still hadn’t given up the fight. The article I wrote and Rachel’s photos got him a reprieve. People rallied around his cause and the county made an exception, not just with him, but with a number of older residents who lived on land their family had owned for generations. But eventually, progress prevailed. He had to sell out.
I pointed at the photo with my beer. “Those were the days, eh?”
“Not for him.” Rachel sat next to me. We both stared at the image for a long time. The contrast was rich, crisp and full of texture. I loved that photograph.
“I mean, the days when we did good work,” I said. “When we still believed.”
“Don’t be such a cynic, Dex. You still believe. You just don’t have a job.”
Maybe she was right. The only reason I was in this mess was because of the layoffs, and because I hadn’t really bothered to look for another job. She was right. I still believed. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t help myself, why this thing with Nick and Maya and Boseman refused to go away. But there was also Petrillo and Frey. Those two were closing in on me. And they were going to put this on me if I didn’t find Zavala’s killer first.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I called Officer John Blake and gave him the license plate number for the Jaguar. He promised to call me back before the end of the day. Next I Googled the nonprofit BRAVO. They had a shitty web page with very little information. Their about page only said they were a charity helping children who suffered from abuse. They had a few links to anti-bullying articles and a few pictures of poor children in Mexico or some other place in Latin America. There was a contact page with a PO Box where people could send donations. They had no names, no physical address, no phone number, nothing tangible.
I smelled a rat.
I continued to search. Corporationwiki, a website that tracks all kinds of corporations and their officers, revealed that BRAVO was a domestic nonprofit that had filed for its status last September. It had a state ID number and was active and seemed on the up and up. The only key officer listed was Joaquin del Pino, Director.
That was my lead: del Pino. I called his office, but the receptionist said he was unavailable and put me through a series of questions about the nature of my call—what kind of accident I had, the type of injuries I suffered, and what insurance companies were involved. When I told her I had to talk to him about a different matter, she changed her tone and took my message. “Mr. del Pino will return your call as soon as he’s available.”
End of story.
Holly Lovett. She was my next lead. She had to know everything about del Pino and probably knew everything about his shady nonprofit. I called her and, big surprise, I got her voice mail.
What was it with lawyers and phones?
I drove out to Nick’s house, just cruised by, didn’t stop. There it was in all its modern 1970s simplicity—dark and full of lies. I needed to find out what was going to happen to the house, his art collection, his fortune, and if there was a life insurance policy. I had seen nothing about that mentioned in the paper or anywhere else. I drove to the Hob Nob to get a bite to eat. The place had just been remodeled, but it retained its casual 1950s drive-in style. I sat outside and ordered a double cheeseburger with extra mustard. Then I called Jason Kirkpatrick at the newspaper. He was smug and full of himself like any twenty-nine-year-old asshole who’s being told by the editor that he’s a rising star. Been there. Done that.
“What can I help you with, buddy?”
That was a nice touch: buddy. “Listen,” I said, “you’re the one on the Nick Zavala story, right?”
“Was,” he said. “There’s nothing to write about. Nothing’s happening, buddy. Margaret has me on other assignments. Better stories.”
“Let me ask you something. Did you ever hear what was going to happen to Zavala’s money?”
“Who would I hear that from?”
“From whoever is handling his estate.”
“And who would that be?”
I laughed. “That’s why I’m calling you.”
He laughed. “No one knows anything. There’s been no statement, no release. Zippo.”
“But the guy was loaded, right? Someone’s bound to inherit his fortune.”
“And his life insurance.”
“How much?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Have you heard anything?”
There was a long silence. Then he said, “You working on a story?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“You were at the house the night of the murder. Who you working for, Vega?”
“No one.”
“You’re a funny guy. Full of tricks.”
“Come on, Jason.”
“I gotta go.” He hung up. That little piss-ass motherfucker hung up on me. The waitress brought my food. I dug into that cheeseburger like it was my last meal.
* * *
I drove up and down the North Trail again, looking for Tiffany without a plan, without really knowing why. She probably had nothing to do with Nick other than sex. Maybe she could tell me something I didn’t know. But there were no guarantees with her. She probably wouldn’t even talk to me. She was tough, took shit from no one. Even if I found her it didn’t mean she would spill the beans—if she had any beans to spill.
I went all the way to downtown Bradenton and back. Twice. Nothing.
The heat and the meal and the days were weighing on me. I drove home. I deserved a nap. I checked my e-mail and lay down on the couch with Mimi. Just when I closed my eyes and began to sink into a pleasant and well-deserved nap, there was a knock on the door.
Detective Petrillo.
“Mind if I come in?”
I moved aside. He walked with his hands in his pants pockets, looked around casually.
I spread my arms. “Can I offer you a beer?”
“Sure,” he said and ran his hand through his thick mane of hair.
I went into the kitchen, popped open a couple of cold Big Tops. He studied the label.
“Local brew,” I said.
He nodded and took a long sip. “Not bad.”
I smiled and leaned against the wall.
“Listen.” He walked slowly across the living room and sat on the couch. I took the desk chair across the living room.
“I have this feeling you know more about what’s going on than we do.”
“About what, the Zavala case?”
He nodded, took a long drink of beer.
“And?”
“I know you don’t like me.” He paused for a moment and looked at the label on the beer again. “You hate cops.”
“I hate bad cops.”
“Come on, you got a chip on your shoulder—”
“We got one of the worst departments in—”
“Okay, we’re not perfect. But we try.”
I rolled my eyes. I thought of my father stepping out of the car on that hot dry afternoon outside San Antonio. And the cop with his hand on his pistol, pointing at
my father with his finger, telling him to get down. My father raising his hands, getting on his knees, his arms out like Jesus Christ. And the cop …
“You forget who you work for,” I said, my voice cracking at the edges.
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“The people.”
He waved, a nice easy gesture that was as vague as his intentions. “We’re not perfect, Dexter. No one is.”
I took a long drink of my beer. “Get to the point.”
“Frey wants to nail you for the murder. He’s playing Clint Eastwood or some shit. I want to nail the real murderer.”
“Really?”
“Your prints are on the penis sculpture … the murder weapon. It’s just a matter of time before Frey and the State Attorney’s office build themselves a convincible case.”
“The prints are not enough.”
He nodded. “Their case is full of holes. But they’re patching them up real quick. That kiddie porn on your computer’s going to nail the coffin. You know that.”
“You asking me to confess?”
He smiled a dry ridiculous smile. “I know you didn’t do it.”
Now it was my turn to smile. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve been doing this for a long time. I can tell. You don’t have the MO. Besides, the date on the porn files are all the same, two days after the murder. It’s obvious it was planted. And then there’s motive. I can’t place you there. You have no motive. Hell, we can’t even connect you with Zavala. And shit. I can see it in your goddamn eyes.” He pointed at me with his beer. “You’re not a bad guy.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be.”
I fetched us another couple of cold ones. I wasn’t sure I could trust Petrillo. He was a cop. I was not a part of the brotherhood. I was an outsider. And, after all I had learned during my reporting, after everything I’d written, I knew I was the enemy. Except to the cops who were really interested in doing the right thing, officers like my inside man, John Blake.
“Tell me what you have on the case,” I said. “Everything.”
He looked at me and sighed long and slow. “What I told you about Zavala, and the porn, some drugs, but not enough to indicate he was dealing. A few ounces of coke, pot, and a few pills. Oxycontin, Vicodin. Not something that would put him away. So he was a user. Maybe his dealer did it. We don’t know.”
