Right to Die

by Jeff Mariotte

  “She called and told me,” Esteban said. “She said you might be coming over. Would you come in?”

  Esteban stepped sideways and swept his arm toward the big window. Horatio nodded and went past him, into a big room with a wooden floor polished to a high gloss, modern black furniture with silver and glass accents—some of which wouldn’t have looked out of place at the lab—pricey-looking abstract paintings hung on the walls, and that million-dollar view. Esteban had not done badly for himself at all.

  Hector Ibanez’s son looked much like the photographs Horatio had seen of Hector as a young man. He was whip-thin, with a casual manner and a relaxed stance belied by sharp, interrogative eyes that Horatio had felt boring into him from the moment the door swung open. His dark hair was combed straight back from a high forehead, and it curled over the collar of a dress shirt worn with the tail untucked and the first three buttons opened.

  “Mother said you almost caught someone at the house,” Esteban said. “But there was a gunfight, an explosion, and the criminal escaped.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And yet here you are, barely an hour later. You’re not injured?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. Have a seat, Lieutenant Caine.”

  Horatio lowered himself into a comfortable leather chair, realizing as he did that his balance wasn’t what it should be. He caught himself on the chair’s arm and steadied himself, then sat.

  “Thank you for saving my mother’s life. I am in your debt.”

  “Not at all,” Horatio said. “That’s the job. I’m glad I got there in time.”

  “As are we all. My mother and I have been—estranged, you might say. But she is a good woman, and in spite of our serious differences, I wish her no harm.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might?”

  Esteban settled onto a leather sofa across a steel and glass coffee table from Horatio’s chair. The area was defined by an elegant kilim rug in colors that would echo the coming sunset. “I’m sorry, I thought you already had an idea on that score. She said other people involved in the case against my father have already been targeted.”

  “That’s right,” Horatio replied. “I hoped you might be able to narrow the field a little. Where were you an hour ago?”

  Esteban’s face took on an expression of surprise, his eyes going wide, mouth dropping open, the color blanching from his cheeks. But he recovered quickly and smiled a wolfish grin. “You can’t genuinely believe I would have anything to do with an attack on my own mother.”

  “I don’t know you well enough to rule it out, do I, Esteban? So why don’t you help me?” He had caught the barest glimpse of the bomber, but the man had looked bigger than Esteban, stockier, carrying at least thirty or forty more pounds. But that didn’t mean Esteban wasn’t involved in some way.

  “An hour ago, I was here. Entertaining a—a guest.”

  “Business, or pleasure?”

  “Oh, entirely pleasure,” Esteban said. “At least, on my part. I hope she got pleasure out of it too. She said she did.”

  “A young lady, then.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I’d like her name and address,” Horatio said.

  “So I can confirm your account.”

  “Of course. I’ll have to ask for your discretion, though. She is the fiancée of a business associate of mine.”

  “I see,” Horatio said. “And what business is that?”

  “Postcards.”

  “Postcards?”

  “I own a publishing company. Postcards, calendars, those tourist booklets printed in eight languages. It’s a competitive business, Lieutenant, but it can be quite lucrative. These past few years, tourists have been buying DVD postcards by the truckload.”

  “I can see that you’ve done very well, Esteban. And apparently you can set your own hours. How long was the lady here with you?”

  “Since noon. We had lunch, and then…”

  “You don’t need to paint me a picture,” Horatio said. He changed the subject abruptly, hoping to catch the man off guard. “The rift between you and your mother came about because of the court case?”

  Esteban’s eyes flickered toward the window as he mentally caught up with Horatio’s conversational leap. “For the most part, yes. Before that—well, you know, there are always issues between sons and their parents, even after we are no longer children. Particularly when a mother is as controlling as mine.”

  “Your father was a powerful presence, right?”

  “Yes, of course. A vital man. My hero, in so many ways. But Mother—behind the scenes, of course—ran everything. The household, his career. She is made of steel, that woman. Had you stood behind her, you needn’t have worried about that bomb.”

  “Was this well known? Would your father’s political enemies have any reason to target her now?”

  Esteban shook his head. “His goals were political, not hers. To her, the politics was simply a means to an end. Material comforts, good schools for her children, a fresh start in life. She achieved her goals long ago.”

  “Which brings us back to the court case,” Horatio said. “You took the opposite side, literally sued your own mother.”

  “She wanted to kill my father. How could I not?”

  “The doctors say he was already dead in every way that mattered. His brain would never have functioned again. The man you loved was already gone.”

  “Doctors say many things. They tell us that diseases are incurable, and then they discover cures, the next year or the year after that. Meanwhile, anyone who gave up is already gone.”

  “So you wanted him to be kept alive, on machines, in case some experimental treatment came along that might have brought him back.”

  “Experimental treatment was one option,” Esteban said. “A miracle was another.”

  “You were hoping for a miracle?”

  “I prayed for one every day. During the trial and the protracted period before we actually went to court, I was surrounded by others who prayed with me, who insisted that a miracle was not only possible, but almost inevitable.”

  “Who were these people, Esteban?”

  “I’ve never been a particularly religious person, Lieutenant. I’m a believer, I go to Mass and confession, but that’s about the extent of it. These people—their faith was phenomenal. It guided every aspect of their lives, and they sought me out, offered me support, both financial and spiritual, during that difficult time.”

  “Were there any who you remember as more radical than the others?”

  “If you think—no, I’m certain that they weren’t the kind of people who would murder. They value life, above all. Causing anyone’s death, even someone they disagreed with, would go completely against everything they stand for.”

  “I’ll need as many names as you can remember, Esteban, just the same. Are you still in touch with them?”

  “Some, of course. Not as frequently as I was then.”

  “Whoever tried to kill your mother won’t give up easily, Esteban. She dodged one today, but she’s still a target. It’s very important that you try to think of anyone who might be part of such an attempt.”

  Esteban thought for a moment, chin resting on his loosely curled fist. “Families are strange beasts, Lieutenant Caine. We love our family members simply because they are who they are, when, if we met the same people under other circumstances, we might want nothing to do with them. We choose friends, we choose spouses, but sometimes those we remain closest to for our whole lives are those we never chose at all. That’s how it is with my mother and sister. I would never befriend someone who argued in court for her husband to be killed. By the same token, I wouldn’t have anything to do with people who would murder anyone. The people I have befriended, they value life, and in that way they’re unlike my mother and sister. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “It is strange, Esteban,” Horatio agreed. Most families, in his experience, were far less ideal than
they might appear, once you scratched beneath the surface a little. Few, though, had been quite as dysfunctional as his own. “But there’s someone after your family who claims to value life by destroying it, and I intend to find out who it is.”

  25

  FRANK TRIPP HAD PAGED Horatio to MDPD headquarters to sit in on the interrogation of a suspect in the murder of Silvio Castaneda. Horatio would rather have stayed focused on the bombing case, but for the moment everything that could be done was in progress, and protection had been put into place around all the potential victims. Eric Delko had just called with news of the arrest of Lyall Douglas and the discovery of a possible murder weapon, which had brightened Horatio’s spirits considerably, and as he walked into the police station he felt as if some measure of the week’s bad news was finally turning good.

  Frank met him outside the interview room. “You okay, Horatio?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Look a little singed is why I ask. Heard about your close call.”

  “Close calls don’t count,” Horatio said. His head still throbbed and his ears rang, but the nosebleed had stopped and he was sure he wasn’t seriously injured. The bomb squad had defused the device rather than exploding it, which would provide invaluable insight into the bomber’s technique when he finally had time to analyze it. Night squad CSIs had been called in early to process the Ibanez house. His team was pressed to their limits, working the cases they already had. On his way over, he’d had another call, about a gardener found dead in his downtown home, shot in the head with a nine-millimeter. It was his truck that had been found in front of the Ibanez home. “Where’s your suspect?”

  “Got him coolin’ his heels,” the detective said.

  “He’s a real piece of work, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Why did you bring him in, Frank?”

  “We squeezed some of our gang contacts around Overtown. A CI told us that this guy”—he jerked a thumb toward the closed door—“had a run-in with Silvio a few days back. Something about him insulting Silvio’s little sister.”

  “Faustina, yes, I met her. Talk about a piece of work.”

  “Guess it goes with the territory.”

  “Is this suspect a gang member too, Frank?”

  “Yeah. Kuban Kings.”

  “One of the chief rivals of Los Danger Boys.”

  “That’s right. This guy’s Little Willy Garza. I figured you know the case as well as anyone, so I thought if you sat in on the initial interrogation it might come in handy. Little Willy hasn’t lawyered up yet.”

  “Well, that’s something, right?”

  “Best time to get the truth out of ’em,” Frank said. “You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Frank opened the door and led Horatio inside. The interview room in which he had parked Little Willy Garza was about fifteen by fifteen, its block walls painted industrial green. It was a far cry from the light, modern interview rooms at the crime lab. A mirror hung on one wall, and a small video camera was mounted high in a corner; no one could fail to understand that they were being watched intently while they were in here.

  Little Willy sat at a steel table, scowling. Horatio knew two things at once. The young man’s name, Little Willy, was meant to be ironic. Even seated, he was tall. Horatio guessed his height to be at least six-four, and his weight to be somewhere north of three hundred and fifty blubbery pounds.

  The other thing he knew was that while Little Willy might conceivably have been the fatal shooter, he wasn’t the other one. Eric and Ryan had demonstrated that the nonfatal shot had been fired from a low angle. Little Willy didn’t look like the kind of guy who would get on the ground during a firefight, because getting up again would require enormous effort, if not a crane. Unless he fired from the hip, which would also be awkward given his build, he had not been that shooter.

  Which didn’t mean he had not fired the fatal shot. But at the killer’s position, Eric and Ryan had discovered cotton fibers from a pair of Wrangler brand jeans. Looking at Little Willy, clad in a loose white T-shirt and baggy black pants festooned with what seemed like dozens of zippers and pockets and loops—all size XXXL, no doubt—Horatio didn’t get the sense that the Kuban King was much of a jeans guy.

  He wasn’t quite ready to rule Little Willy out—he would let the evidence do that, not his own first impression—but the suspect didn’t look promising to him.

  “Little Willy,” Frank said, scooting back a chair on the other side of the table and lowering his bulk into it. It was rare that anybody made Frank look svelte, but Little Willy accomplished that task. Horatio leaned against a corner, crossing his arms over his chest. “Little Willy,” Frank repeated. “What are we gonna do with you?”

  Willy rattled the handcuffs holding him to the table (the manacle, at its widest setting, still biting into the flesh of his thick wrist). “Try cuttin’ me loose?”

  “Can’t do that,” Frank said. “I got a dead kid in the morgue. And you had an argument with that kid just a couple of days ago.”

  “I argue with a lot of people,” Willy said. “Don’t mean I cap ’em.”

  “Don’t mean you didn’t cap this one. You wanna tell me about it?”

  “I don’t even know who you talkin’ ’bout, ese.”

  “Name Silvio Castaneda mean anything to you?”

  Willy touched the stud in his right eyebrow with a pudgy finger. His face was thick, fleshy, his head almost as round as a beach ball. He kept his black hair cut short, and what looked like the ghost of a mustache floated above his upper lip. “Maybe.”

  “He’s Los Danger Boys,” Frank said.

  Willy’s response was to spit toward the corner.

  “You do that again, and you can clean it up with your tongue,” Frank said, an edge of menace in his tone. “I don’t know about where you live, Little Willy, but here we got rules. No spitting, no backtalk, and you tell me the truth.”

  “Sorry,” Willy said. “I just hate those putas.”

  “You hate Los Danger Boys? Way I hear it, they feel the same about the Kuban Kings.”

  Willy shrugged. “How it goes, right? Everybody hatin’ on everybody.”

  “Not here,” Frank said. “In here there’s nothing but love. Long as I get the truth.”

  “Right,” Willy said. He didn’t look convinced.

  “Tell me about your fight with Silvio.”

  “Wasn’t no fight,” Willy said. “More of a disagreement.”

  “Don’t define it, just tell me what happened.”

  Willy shrugged again. “I might have said something to his sister.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I thought she was kinda hot, you know. Little and all. Told her I thought it’d be fun, we hooked up, her and me. Big man, little girl.”

  “Girl is right,” Horatio said, unable to contain himself any longer. “She can’t be more than fifteen. You know about statutory rape laws, right?”

  Willy shrugged for a third time. Horatio hoped the guy didn’t keep that up, or he would quickly lose his patience. “No girl been with me ever complained about it to anyone.”

  “She doesn’t have to complain for it to be a crime,” Horatio said. Frank shot him a look, and Horatio folded his arms again, going back to his corner to let Frank continue his interrogation.

  “Okay, Casanova. You hit on the girl. Where was this?”

  “Parking lot of the arena.”

  “And what happened?”

  “She turned me down.” Little Willy gestured toward his own physique. “You imagine that?”

  “Not in a million years, Little Willy. Then what?”

  “I told her what a mistake she was making.”

  “In the nicest possible way, I’m sure.”

  “I might have called her something.”

  “Like what?”

  One more shrug. Horatio felt his hackles rise, willed himself to stay calm. “I might have said something like she was a stupid, useless
ho that didn’t know quality when she saw it, and when she changed her mind she’d have to beg for a piece of me.”

  “You got a way with words,” Frank said. “Toastmasters?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. What happened next?”

  “I didn’t know this punk-ass dude was her brother. He come over to me, got all up in my grill, wavin’ his hands and sayin’ don’t nobody talk that way about his sister, and he’d put a cap in my ass next time he saw me.”

  “There you go,” Frank said. “When you shot Silvio, it was self-defense, right?”

  “I didn’t freakin’ shoot him! What I’m tryin’ to tell you.”

  “But he was going to shoot you.”

  “He’s so full of it his eyes are brown.”

  “So are yours,” Frank pointed out.

  “Latino curse, right?” Willy said. This time his shrug was more abbreviated, just a slight wag of one shoulder. “Anyway, Silvio ain’t man enough to back that up. And me? I’m a lover, dog, not a fighter, ’cept when I gotta be. I wasn’t scared of him, and I didn’t have no other reason to cap him.”

  “Looks like reason enough to me.”

  “The victim was killed between two and four yesterday morning,” Horatio interrupted. “Can you tell us where you were at that time?”

  “Shit,” Willy said. “Why didn’t you ask me that right off?”

  “We’re askin’ you now,” Frank said.

  “I was at this club,” Willy began.

  “What club?”

  “Didn’t have no name. In some warehouse in Opa-Locka.”

  “Break-in party?” Frank asked.

  “I guess.”

  “Then there won’t be anything like surveillance video to back up your story, will there?” Horatio asked.

  Willy smiled. “No surveillance video. But plenty of other video. I got friends who was playin’ with their phones all night, shootin’ flix. Must have hours on me. I got some moves, yo, I get on that dance floor.”