On the Edge (13 page)

CAFÉ VARADERO WAS MY FAVORITE PEOPLE-WATCHING
place on Calle Ocho. It was modeled off an old country Cuban home, with worn, antique furniture, vintage lamps, and faded family photos. Miami hipsters came here for overpriced snacks and fancy versions of Cuban coffees. Naturally I had to show Julia the place.

She walked into the café in blue high-tops, white jeans, and a tight black tee—part street, part chic, part laissez-faire.

“Well, fuck me,” she said when she saw my smile. “You are
so
far gone, Maddie Diaz. When did you see Ortiz?”

“Saturday night. Sunday night.” I slid her drink across the table. “Bought you a cortadito. No mocha latte blancos here.”

She took a sip. “Mmm. What's in it?”

“Espresso with milk.”

“Nice, I'll get yours next time. So. Your message must've woken him up, huh?”

“I think so. Thanks for your help.”

Julia grinned. “Thank
you
. I'm sure he'll go easier on Eric in the ring if he can release some of that pent-up sexual energy. Get ready, girl. He's a raging bull.”

“Giddy up.” I had more than enough pent-up sexual energy of my own.

We both laughed, and I felt a pang, realizing it was the sort of raunchy girl talk I usually had with Iz.

Julia must've read my face, because she said, “Eric told me Iz and Rob broke up yesterday.”

I lifted a shoulder. “The poor guy's days were numbered. I'm surprised she didn't cut him loose sooner.”

“That's the weird thing. Rob dumped
her
.”

“Really? Rob was so into her.”

“Eric said she was totally blindsided. She was bawling on the phone.”

“Bawling?” That didn't sound like Iz at all. I figured I'd text her later to ask if she was okay. She would probably ignore it, but it was worth a shot.

Julia sat back and sipped her drink, taking in the café and its young, stylish crowd. “Sweet place. I should bring my laptop here some time. We could have a study date.”

“Think we'd get anything done?”

“Probably not.” She smiled. “What were you working on, anyway?”

“The tribute to Hector.”

“Did Ortiz ever send you a quote?”

“Yeah. It's perfect.” I opened my laptop and read it to her. “‘Hector was a gentleman. He always had a smile on his face and a kind word for everyone. The most grateful, humble person I've met.'”

“Didn't know Ortiz was so eloquent.”

“Me neither. I got another powerful quote from Hector's friend Eloise. ‘Shared everything he had, even if he had next to nothing.'” I sighed. “I have a few more quotes, and I've written up a biography but . . . there's something missing. I need a
personal
account of his past and his family life. His sister wrote some great stuff on her Facebook page, but I can't exactly email her to ask permission. I'm not allowed to have any contact with Hector's family before the trial.”

“As far as I know, you don't need permission to quote her page. I'd have to double-check, but I think it's all public.”

“It might be, but it still wouldn't feel right.”

“How about I email her for you? I'll tell her I'm a college student who thinks Hector deserves better treatment in the press. Then I'll ask if she's okay with her Facebook page being quoted. I can say it all without actually lying. Up to you.”

I thought about it. I wanted my letter to the editor to be as punchy as possible, and I just couldn't do it without using the information from his sister. It was worth a shot, anyway.

“Okay, let's do it.”

Julia snapped her fingers. “Consider it done.”

True to her word, Julia got it done.

At nine thirty that night, she texted me:

I replied:

It was the green light I'd needed. I went straight to her Facebook page. It was all there. Hector's life story. Hector as a kind big brother. Hector's battle with mental illness. Hector's drinking problem and homelessness. I pulled several quotes and made notes on key events in his life. The Rodriguez family had been loving and supportive, a unit that had stayed strong despite Hector's illness. I couldn't help but think of what Ortiz had told me about his own mother.

Every family has something
, I wrote.
A crisis, a tragedy, a struggle. Hector's family was no different
.

Once I'd made some notes, I dove in. Like automatic writing guided by a spirit, I just kept going.

The following night, I stood in the hallway outside Ortiz's apartment. I took a breath, ready to see Lobo's lair.

Ortiz twisted his key in the lock and opened the door. It was a large studio apartment. Not stylish, but neat and clean. The usual furniture was there—a futon that acted as both bed and couch, a TV, a couple of tables and lamps. The only thing that surprised me was the books. Two stuffed, mismatched bookshelves lined one wall.

“Keeping it simple,” he said, neither proud nor embarrassed.

I searched for something to compliment, but there weren't many options. “It's a nice size for a studio.”

He smirked. This was one of the shadiest areas of Miami. Not exactly prime real estate.

I spotted a piece of art on the wall, the only thing resembling decoration. It was an urban streetscape done entirely in black chalk. I approached it. The style was familiar. I noticed the X signature at the bottom.

“Eric has something like this at his place,” I said.

“I introduced him to the artist's work.”

“He signs all his paintings with an X? Doesn't he want to use his name?”

“That
is
his name.” I sensed that Ortiz knew more, but he wasn't giving anything away.

I shrugged and went to the window, gazing down at the street corner. I spotted three prostitutes waiting for johns. We were in the heart of the city's sex trade.

“I can keep an eye on things from here.”

Letting the curtain fall back, I turned to him. “You're on duty twenty-four/seven, aren't you?”

“Yeah.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Want a drink?”

“Sure. What've you got?”

He opened the fridge, which was stocked with several types of soda and energy drinks. “Hey, I work at Sasso's. I get them half price.”

“Those energy drinks aren't good for you.”

“I don't have more than one a day.”

“I'll have a Coke, please.”

He passed me a can. “Wait. I should be giving it to you in a glass, shouldn't I?”

I smiled. “This is fine.”

“Sorry. I haven't had a girl over since I moved here.”

“When was that?”

“A year and a half ago.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He didn't need to explain, but he seemed to want to. “There's no point in having a relationship if you can't let someone in. And I've never trusted anyone but my Destinos until now.”

I raised my eyebrows. He must know that a guy with his looks didn't need to have a
relationship
. He could have whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. That was his power.

“I don't use girls, Madeleina.”

I nodded. But a part of me wondered if he could really be this perfect. My eyes narrowed just a little. “C'mon, not even the party girls? The ones who offer themselves up with no strings?”

“I'm not a saint. I won't say I haven't made mistakes. But those party girls, they're the neediest of all. They use sex to kill the loneliness.”

“But it doesn't work.”

“No, it doesn't.”

“So how do
you
kill the loneliness?”

“The Destinos are my family. We're a pack. We rely on each other to survive.”

I sipped my Coke. “I get why you want to help those girls. What about the other guys?”

“Each one has his own reason. They know this isn't a game, that it's their lives on the line. They've all been in some kind of trouble in the past. Gangs, crime, whatever. They only know this way of life. That may be hard for you to understand. But at least, now, they're doing it for the right reasons.”

Silence fell between us. I walked up to the bookshelf, browsing the titles. Turned out he was a fan of thrillers.

“When do you have time to read?”

“Helps me fall asleep.”

“Thrillers help you sleep?” I glanced at him, taking in the lean, hard physique, the five o'clock shadow and unruly dark hair. Desire slithered through me.

As I turned back to the bookshelf, I felt him come up behind me. He must have sensed it, my need for him. He reached past me to pick a graphic novel off the shelf.

“First book of the Walking Dead. Brilliant.”

He was standing so close, I could feel his chest rise and fall against my back. And if I didn't just imagine it, he was breathing harder than he had been a minute ago.

Ortiz's left arm came up under mine, lightly brushing against my breast as he grabbed another book. “Anything by Lee Child.”

“I've never read him. But if I need a bedtime story . . .”

“I'll read it to you.”

His hands came down on my shoulders. Then I felt his lips on my neck.

“Here's the thing, Madeleina,” he said against my skin. “When I said you're all over my mind, I meant it.” He molded his body to mine. “You're all through me, all the time.”

He twisted me around, and then we were kissing. The force of his need made me tremble—set my whole body on fire. This wasn't some perfectly choreographed Hollywood kiss. This was us, starved for each other.

His lips were on the exposed skin of my shoulder. “I can hardly sleep, you know. I've been dying to kiss you again, to feel your skin. So soft.” He slid down the straps of my cami. I was so out of breath that I realized I was thrusting up my chest, giving him an eyeful. “God, you're killing me.”

My breath rose on a laugh. It was ridiculous that gorgeous Ortiz wanted
me
, Maddie Diaz. But right now I felt beautiful and sexy—sexy enough to be his match.

The futon bumped against our legs. We must have moved toward it. All I knew was we were sinking down. I pulled his shirt over his head and whipped it away. Holy shit. I'd seen his chest in the boxing ring, but now, up close, I could feel its tightness under my hands, trace every chisel of muscle and bone. My hands went lower, and his abs rippled under my hands. I saw that he was straining against his jeans, and I cupped him over the denim.

He sucked in a breath, muttering curses in Spanish.

Then we were lying on the futon together. My cami was at my waist now, and I was suddenly glad I'd worn the silky purple bra Abby had given me for my birthday. We grappled for each other, so eager we were almost rough, and soon I was in nothing but my bra and panties, and he in black boxer briefs. I tensed up a bit, wondering at what point I should say something, let him know that I was up for this and more but not all the way, not yet. But I didn't need to say a word, because he whispered, “Don't worry. Just this.”

Ortiz knew me so well, knew exactly what assurance I needed. I relaxed, giving myself up to the bliss. And he kissed me so thoroughly I lost the need to breathe.

ANYONE WATCHING US WOULD SAY WE
were either drunk or in love.

Later that night, we drove to South Miami to go to Ortiz's favorite pizza place. We were both super hungry, and ordered their specialty, the Everything But the Kitchen Sink pizza. As we sat in a booth, chowed down, and chatted about all sorts of things, I couldn't stop smiling. Neither could he.

There was no break in the conversation, no need to think of what to say next. We talked like old friends who knew each other well, or new friends who were fascinated with each other. One of us could start a thought and the other would either finish it or turn it upside down. That's how we rolled.

“So what's the goal?” he asked me. “You want to write for the
New York Times
or anchor the CBS Evening News?”

From most people, the question might be a joke, but not from Ortiz. He seemed to believe I could do whatever I wanted.

“I like the idea of investigative journalism for big newspapers or newsmagazines. Or even doing mini documentaries for
60 Minutes
or some show like that.”

He nodded. “I could see you doing either. You'd be great.”

I waved my hand, as if to say “stop it,” but I was grateful for his vote of confidence. “So what's your goal? If, you know . . .”
If Salazar was shut down and you were free to do something else
. There was no need to finish the thought. “One of the helping professions, maybe? Doctor, firefighter, social worker?”

For some reason, that last one made him laugh. “Social worker? No, that's not me. Not really.”

“What, then? You'd be an amazing dog trainer.”

He smiled, knowing I was part kidding, part not kidding. “I'd be a cop.”

“Yeah, right. You think most cops are corrupt.”

“Exactly.”

It was official: there was nothing about Ortiz that didn't amaze me.

“We need good cops,” he said. “Ones that won't take bribes, or walk away from a situation because they don't want the paperwork. At the boxing gym, a lot of guys want to be cops. They want the uniform and the gun so they can strut around looking tough. Not me. And I don't plan to stay a beat cop either. I want to work my way up to lieutenant so I can have a real impact.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” There wasn't a doubt in my mind that he could get where he wanted to be.

If
he ever moved on from the Destinos.

We were both thinking the same thing, but it seemed an unwritten rule that we weren't going to talk about the Destinos anymore tonight. Tonight was just about us.

We stayed another few minutes, then got back into his car. He took the highway north, blasting hip hop on the radio. The dashboard clock said eleven thirty, so I'd be back just in time for my midnight curfew.

His phone rang. “Yeah,” he answered. His body tightened up behind the steering wheel. “Shit. I'll meet you at the parking lot.”

He put down the phone, driving a lot faster now. “We've got an emergency. I don't have time to take you home. I'll have to drop you off somewhere. I'll give you money for a cab.” He changed lanes, heading for the turnoff.

“What's happening?”

“Two girls in Wynwood. We got a tip that they're about to be moved, so we have to get them out now. If we lose them, we might not find them again.”

“Wait! Don't turn off. Keep going.”

“I'm not taking you with me.”

I couldn't let him do this. “You want to risk the girls' lives so you can drop me off? You don't have time.”

He was in the turnoff lane now, but I could feel his hesitation. “Forget it. I don't want you—”

“I'll stay out of the way, I promise. For God's sake, don't turn off.”

“Damn it.” At the last minute, he veered out of the turn lane. “Promise me you'll do what I tell you.”

“Fine.”

He pressed harder on the gas.

“Why do you think they're moving the girls?” I asked.

“Salazar is upping his security, moving girls more often. Trying to throw us off.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“What we always do. Bust some doors down.”

Ten minutes later, he exited the highway, made a few sharp turns, and drove into a shopping mall parking lot. A gray car was parked at the north end under a tree. Ortiz pulled up next to it.

The doors of the car opened and four guys got out. They were dressed in black, bandannas around their necks. The guys looked pumped up, like football players before a championship game. When I got out of the car, their eyes widened in surprise.

“No time to bring her home,” Ortiz said. “How close are the others, X?” he asked the driver of the car.

I recognized him. He was the blue-eyed guy who had helped me the night of my attack, the one I'd also seen at the safe house.

“Ten minutes, maybe fifteen,” X replied. “There's no time, Lobo. I've been watching the place. They could be moving them right now.”

Ortiz nodded. “Me and Rubio will take the goons.” He indicated a huge guy, easily six-foot-four and two-fifty, whose fists glittered with brass knuckles.

Ortiz turned to the other two guys. One was short but built like a tank; the other was taller and leaner, with a scar slashing down one side of his face. “Felix, Matador, you get the girls out.”

Then Ortiz looked at the driver again. “X, do your thing.”

X smiled. “Sure, Lobo.”

“Let's do this, Destinos.” Ortiz smacked a fist into his palm, and the group split up. Three of them got back into X's car. Rubio got into the passenger seat of Ortiz's car, and I slid into the back.

Ortiz gave me instructions as he drove. “When we get out of the car, sit in the driver's seat. If anyone approaches who isn't one of us, drive away. You drive, right?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“The plan is to put the girls in X's car so he can drive them to the safe house. But we always have a backup plan. Tonight it's you.”

I swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“If the Reyes arrive on the scene, X will become the decoy, and we'll put the girls in this car instead. So if you see X drive off, put the engine on and wait. Got it?”

“Got it.” My mind was spinning. This was way too intense.

“One last thing,” Ortiz said. “
Don't
wait for me. If the girls end up in this car, the priority is to get them to the safe house. One of the guys will drive.” Ortiz flashed a look back at me. “We're almost there. You ready?”

“Yes.” Though I was far from it.

Ortiz pulled up to the curb. “We're out.” He cut the engine and the lights. Then he and Rubio got out of the car and slipped out of sight, engulfed by the darkness.

I climbed into the driver's seat, staying low. The clock on the dash read 12:02.

About four car-lengths in front of me, X was in his car. The other two Destinos must have gotten out already. His motor was running, but he'd shut off his lights.

My heart pounded in my ears. One second, one heartbeat. Another second, another heartbeat. I was trying to remember everything Ortiz had said to me.
If someone approaches the car, leave. If X drives off, turn on the engine and wait
.

Gunshots rang out. I almost jumped out of my skin. Shouting erupted from the nearby projects.

I gripped the wheel, telling myself to stay calm.

A minute passed. Maybe two. A car sped around the corner.

I ducked. Oh my God. More of Salazar's guys must be here. How the hell had they gotten here so fast?

Tires squealed. I glanced up through the steering wheel, and saw X's car speed off so fast that it could break the sound barrier. The other car chased after it.

I turned the engine on. Suddenly the back door opened and three people piled in. Two girls and one of the Destinos.

“Go!” the Destino shouted, pulling down his bandanna and gasping for breath. “Drive!”

I glanced back. It was the scarred Destino called Matador. He was cradling his arm, his face contorted in pain. The two girls were huddled together, silent and bewildered.

Drive? I had no idea where I was going. And what about Ortiz and the rest of the guys?

“I said,
go
!” he repeated.

I put the car into drive and pressed on the gas, blasting us forward.

“Head to the parkway.”

I tried to remember which way the parkway was. When I hesitated at a stop sign, he said, “Left, then straight for a while.”

“Okay.”
I can do this
, I told myself. It's what Ortiz asked me to do.

“Do you need to go to a hospital?”

“I'll be fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “We need to get the girls to the safe house, then I'll get sewed up.”

Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw one of the girls wrapping a blanket around his arm and applying pressure. They knew that he had helped them, and they wanted to help him.

If Matador had been shot, what about Ortiz? I'd heard multiple gunshots.

“Is Lobo okay?” I asked.

“He and the others are handling the goons. There were more of them than we thought.”

Handling the goons
. Like it was still happening.

“Can't we pick him up? I could circle back. What if he's hurt too?”

“No, you can't. That isn't the plan.”

Matador was right. Ortiz knew what he was doing, and I had to trust him. My hands tightened around the wheel, but I kept going.