Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (27 page)

Silvana

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

8:10 AM

L
IEUTENANT SANTOS'S VOICE
DRIPPED WITH ANXIETY
through the phone line.

"Machado,
you and Vargas in my office. Immediately."

"Yes,
sir." She poked Vargas at his desk on her way out the door. "Come on,
Bobby. The Lieutenant wants us, right now."

"What
is it?"

"Come
on. We'll find out."

Moments
later, they presented themselves in Santos's open doorway. Another man stood by
the lieutenant's desk, trouble all over his face. Santos was pouring coffee,
one for himself, one for his guest, none for the cops.

"Come
in," he said. "Sergeant Machado, Detective Vargas, this is County
Commissioner Bob Harvey. Commissioner, these are the detectives working to find
the killer of your wife's niece."

Harvey
didn't waste any time. "Where are you in this? What's the status of the
investigation?"

Silvana
looked him over. Large and fiftyish, he cut an imposing figure. His excess
weight, and he had about fifty pounds of it, served him well. Combined with
what appeared to be an aggressive nature, it made him more intimidating. His
moon-shaped face appeared kind and generous, but his voice and his body
language told another story. This guy wasn't here to fuck around.

She
said, "Well, Commissioner, I'm afraid I can't comment on any ongoing
investigation. It's classified information."

"God
damn it, don't give me that shit!" Harvey said. "The Chief —
you do remember him, don't you,
Sergeant
?
— the Chief told me progress has been made and I could expect full
cooperation. Now, fill me in!"

"Sir,
I'm sorry. I cannot reveal any facts concerning an ongoing investigation. It's
strict department protocol. I can, however, tell you Detective Vargas and I are
working this case night and day and we
will
find the perpetrator."

Harvey
moved his considerable body directly in front of Silvana. She didn't budge.
Vargas edged closer to her. She could feel him behind her and to the left.

"I
don't give a shit how long you're working on it," Harvey said. "I
want details and I want them now!"

Silvana
looked to Santos for help. None came. She said, "Well, you're not getting
any from me."

"Or
me," added Vargas.

Harvey
took a deep breath. He softened his whole presence and modulated his voice
downward to friendly level. "Sergeant, listen to me. Yanet Santiago was
fifteen years old. Gunned down by some crazed fucking killer over God knows
what. He was probably high on drugs at the time. My wife's Cuban, and you know
how hysterical they can get over the least little thing." Silvana let that
one slide and Harvey continued, "But this is no little thing. Far from it.
Her sister will mourn Yanet every day for the rest of her life. There's nothing
worse, you know, than losing a child. It fucks you up for life. For life, do
you understand?"

"Yes,
sir, I do." Silvana's voice remained even and her posture erect. Her
thoughts drifted nearly twenty years back to her harrowing trip across the
Florida Straits. She allowed herself to wonder if her father, worthless fuck
that he was, ever grieved over "losing" her.

"So
I'm asking you. Please, please tell me what progress you've made. I have to be
able to tell my wife's sister
something
.
I can tell you know what I'm talking about … I can see it in your eyes."

Silvana
knew what he was talking about, all right, but he couldn't see shit in her
eyes, because they betrayed nothing. They were merciless eyes, hardened by her
difficult and treacherous life. He was just babbling his politician line of
bullshit.

"I'm
sorry, but I have to say it again, Commissioner," she said. "I cannot
comment on an open investigation."

Harvey's
own eyes looked as though they were ready to burst out of his reddening face.
His shoulders hunched inward, like a gray wolf, preparing to strike his
unsuspecting prey.

His
voice was slow, level, and filled with controlled rage. "You will tell me
what I want to know and you will tell me now. If you do not, I will call the
Chief and have your badge. The both of you! Now, do you read me?"

He
awaited Silvana's response. She took a deep breath. Then she took another.

Then
she said, "I'll tell you something you may
not
want to know. I'll tell you I know your brother is in the
process of developing a shopping center over near Hialeah Park. I'll also tell
you the company he formed to build it is owned by one of
your
shell companies, which means he's fronting for
you
, that
you're
the real owner. I'll also tell you Maxie Méndez, a known
operator of various criminal enterprises in Hialeah, has already paid you off,
through your brother, for exclusive vending machine and video game rights in
the entire center." Her voice rose with emotion. "I will also tell
you Maxie is putting one of his liquor stores in this center, rent-free in
return for no union problems during construction. And in case that isn't
enough, I'll
also
tell you that
because you brought Maxie and his influence to the deal, it sailed through the
permitting process in the Hialeah Building Department, which he controls
through a number of cousins in high positions there. Now, Commissioner, do
you
read
me
?"

She
caught Santos holding back a grin.

Harvey
looked like his head was going to explode. He said, "You better find that
fucking killer. This isn't over. Not by a long shot." He stormed out of
the office.

After
the door slammed, Santos leaned back in his chair, feet on the desk, clasping
and unclasping his hands. "Very good, Machado. Very, very good. My hands
were tied, of course. I come to your defense, then he calls the Chief and my
badge is gone as
well
as yours."

Silvana
kept her tight bearing. "What I want to know, sir, is where does he get
off talking to police officers like that? Threatening me and Bobby? How can he
get away with that?"

Santos
put his feet on the floor and leaned forward. "Because he's who he is,
that's how. He's a County Commissioner with heavy clout in the department. I
don't like him any more than you do, but sometimes politics trumps policy. This
was shaping up to be one of those times, but you avoided it nicely."

"I
did what I had to do, sir. I couldn't give up any information and have him
sticking his nose in."

"No,
you couldn't. You did right. But, uh, where did you get that dope on his
brother and the connection to Méndez?"

She
shrugged. "You know, sir, you hear things. You're out on the street day
after day, you hear things."

Santos
chuckled. "Yes, I guess you do. Well, keep listening, Machado. You too,
Vargas. Now, get back to work."

Logan

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

8:40 AM

I
PRESENTED MYSELF
AT THE ORIGINAL MAMBO'S HOUSE
the next morning, according to
script. Mrs DeLima, a petite, graceful lady in her seventies, answered my knock
and ushered me inside with a smile.

This
was my first time in the big house, although I only made it a little past the
foyer. It was enough to glimpse the living room, which was tidy and large, but
not extravagant. The decor didn't look professionally done, although I'm no
expert. The big-screen TV seemed to be the most expensive item in the room. The
smell of Cuban coffee drifted my way from the kitchen. You could tell the comfy
house had been lived in for a very long time.

"He
will be down very soon," she told me. Her voice carried a surprisingly
heavy accent. As I understood it, she'd been born in Cuba, but I knew she'd
been here for many decades, married for almost as long. They apparently spoke
only Spanish around the house.

I
soon heard footsteps tromping down the stairs. The Original Mambo came right up
to me and shook my hand.

"Logan,
thank you for coming today." His eyes were clear and dark, and his grip
was solid as ever. He wore a black guayabera and black pants. I cursed myself
for not thinking to wear black. We were, after all, going to a wake.

"My
pleasure, Mambo. Anytime."

"You
want a
cafecito
? I'm going to have
one. We can take them with us."

I
smiled and nodded. That coffee was smelling better and better. "I sure
would like some. Thanks."

He
signaled to his wife, who hustled off into the kitchen. A minute later, she
returned, holding two steaming Cuban coffees in heavy-duty paper cups. I sipped
mine before we hit the door. It carried the expected pop and wiped away any
remaining traces of morning ass-dragging.

We
took my SUV. The drive would take no more than five minutes.

Once
I pulled out into the street, he said, "Did my grandson tell you what's
going to happen today?"

"He
just said you were going to meet with Win Whitney at Dean-Lopez."

He
drank from his coffee to keep it from brimming over the sides of the cup as we
rolled down the street, then he slipped it into the cup holder in the console.
"I'm going there to pay my respects and also to have a talk with Win about
our deal out on the boulevard. We can't let it be derailed. It means too much
to both our families."

"Derailed?"

"Trey
was going to play a role in this deal. I want to make sure his death doesn't
upset anything."

"Mambo
the Third told me this guy Chase might be there. Morgan and Stanley's
brother."

He
looked at me hard and slowly wagged an index finger at me. "If he is, you
keep your fucking eye on him at all times,
me
entendés
? Him being there can only open the door to trouble."

I
shifted my weight in the seat, suddenly feeling the hard mass of the gun
bulging into my back. Patting my shirt pocket, I felt the extra magazine I'd
brought. Just in case.

We
turned the corner onto Eaton Street. He said, "I want you to stand a
little behind me and to my right. You're right-handed?"

"Yeah."

"That
way, if you have to pull your piece, you'll be to my right and I won't be in
the way. Just remember, a little behind me and to my right."

"Got
it."

He
smiled. "You're a good man, Logan. I know I can count on you. I have
always been able to count on you. And my grandson, he knows it, too."

I
returned the smile. "Thank you, Mambo. I appreciate that vote of
confidence."

Rolling
back his smile a little, he said, "Now, do you want to tell me what the
fuck happened the other night with Trey?"

"Trey?"
What the fuck was this about?
"How should I know, Mambo? I wasn't there. As far as I know, he —"

"I'm
asking you, here in private." We motored slowly through the residential
neighborhood, while his voice remained steady and low-pitched, not at all
agitated. "What happened with Trey?"

I
returned the calmness in my own voice. "Mambo, I'm telling you, I wasn't
there. The girl told the cops —"

"The
girl owed you a thousand dollars. And you went there to collect. Like you did
every Saturday.
¿Sí o no?
"

It
was all I could do to keep from squirming. My insides were going fucking
batshit. "I — I was there earlier."

"Bullshit!
You didn't show up during her shift. LeeRon told me. None of the girls saw you
in the club during business hours. He said you had called him, asked what time
she got off. So it had to be afterward."

"Afterward?"

"Yes,
afterward! Like sometime after four AM. A couple of the other strippers at the
Wild Thing saw her walk out the door around four-thirty and Trey was not far
behind her. Five minutes later he was dead. Don't fuck with me, Logan. Give it
to me. Now!"

I
swung the SUV on to Simonton Street, just a few blocks from the funeral home.
An empty parking spot loomed up ahead. I pulled into it and left the motor
running.

I
turned to face the old man. "Last week, Trey yanked me out of a romantic
dinner with Dorothy down at the Pasta Garden." I went on to tell him about
getting roughed up in the parking lot. "I couldn't let him scare me off
like that, you know? I had to come back Saturday night and collect the money.
She owed it to me." Mambo nodded like he understood. "So," I
said, "the other night, I waited for her to come out of the club after
closing. Trey came out right after she did. He gave me some shit about her not
owing me the money and tried to put himself between me and her. I gave him a
little shove — I wasn't even really looking at him — and he fell
back against the concrete lamppost. Hit his head, collapsed, and died. That's
it."

"That's
all?"

"I
swear, Mambo. That's all. I wouldn't lie to you."

He
swallowed the last of his coffee and set the cup in the cupholder. Then he
adjusted his seat belt and said with a smile, "Now that wasn't so hard,
was it? All I wanted was the truth."

I
reached down to my coffee cup and spun it nervously in the cupholder. Shit, I
just wanted to disappear. Finally, though, I said, "I always tell you the
truth, Mambo."

He
patted my thigh and smiled. "I know you do." He pointed to the
windshield. "Now, let's go to a wake."