Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (5 page)

Mambo
the Third drew on his cigar and swished smoke around in his mouth before
releasing it. He was here to absorb not only smoke, but information that was
being tossed around the room. His
Abuelo
was counting on it.

"I've
got the rough plans," The Original Mambo said. "We'll look them over
after dinner. My nephew at the building department assures me the permits will
not be a problem, based on these plans." His voice dropped a level or two.
"But … the transient room licenses …"

No
one said anything. They all knew where this topic would end up. Transient room
licenses can get very sticky in Key West. They require City Commission
approval, and each individual hotel room has to have one. There are always
activists, both on and off the Commission, who oppose every single license as
though the fate of all humanity depended on it.

Whitney
spoke: "Right now, we've got a three-three split on the Commission, with
the mayor breaking the tie in our favor. We won't be ready for a vote for eight
or nine months yet. Meanwhile, all six Commissioners are running for
re-election in November against weak opposition, so the split will probably
remain, but the mayor's termed out. He can't run anymore. My nephew Jason is
going to run and I'm counting on your support, Mambo."

The
Original Mambo said, "Of course. We'll do everything we can." He
puffed on his cigar.

Mambo
the Third finally spoke up. "What about opposition to any of the friendly
Commissioners? What if someone else runs? I've heard talk."

His
grandfather nearly spit out his cigar smoke. With narrowed eyes, he said,
"Opposition! There won't be any. And if there is, it won't amount to
shit!" He turned to his wife. "Lisbeth. When do we eat?"

≈ ≈ ≈

As the yellow-gold
Trans
Am
pulled out of its spot and rolled
down William Street, Mambo knew he was in deep trouble. He wished he was
already home in bed, asleep. He felt it all through dinner, felt the shit
deepening all around him, right to the very end of the flan, through the
brandy, and all through the cigar-smoke session in the parlor where they
examined the plans.

Palmira
looked over at him, but he stared straight out the windshield into the street.
He glanced upward. A few high clouds had gathered in one spot, as if
deliberately, to hide the moon on an otherwise clear night. Carlena slept
soundly, curled up in the back seat.

"So
now I suppose there won't be any hospital?" she said, frost covering her
voice.

"Honey,
no, it's not over. You saw what happened. I mentioned opposition in the
elections and —"

"And
your
Abuelo
shut you up as if he'd
put a bullet in your head." A slender, perfectly-manicured hand pushed a
shock of hair back from her forehead.

"He
really doesn't like the idea of opposition," Mambo said. "He's
pretending like there won't be any. And I couldn't say anything more after
that."

"What,
you couldn't bring up the hospital later? Like two hours later in the parlor
when you guys were going over the blueprints?"

"You
gotta understand how he is with stuff like this," Mambo said. "When
you piss him off like that, you got to get back on his good side before you
bring up another touchy subject, you know? Like a new hospital."

"Get
back on his good side? What the hell —"

"I
mean I had to make up for that stupid comment by making a few intelligent
comments, you know? I couldn't just blurt out, 'Well okay, you don't want to
talk about the elections. How about I bring up the hospital?' He'd've shut me
up good and maybe even excluded me altogether from working on the deal. Is that
what you want?"

Palmira's
voice rose, but only a little. "What I want is for that facility to get
built and for Rolando to come down here and run it. Now what do you have to do
to make that happen?"

"Honey,
listen. I'm only involved in this deal on a trial basis. If my grandfather
doesn't think I can cut it, I'm out. You understand? I'm out!"

"We
can make a ton of money with that hospital, especially if Rolando's in
charge."

"And
we'll make a ton of money without it," Mambo said, "with just hotels
and restaurants leasing the buildings."

Palmira
struggled to keep her voice down to avoid waking Carlena. "Yes, by
leasing
. But Rolando knows how to
generate cash through hospitals.
And
we don't have to divide it up with any hotel management company, either. Or
with anybody else. We own the land, we own the building, we own the facility.
We keep it all!"

"I
know, I know. But I have to be careful, is all. If I get cut out of this deal,
we get nothing. Just remember that."

"Look,
you want to impress
Abuelo
? Sell him
on the idea of the hospital. Let him know it's like a license to print money.
Obamacare is going to act like a giant cash funnel into hospitals, once the
insurance companies back out of it and the government starts picking up the tab
for everybody. Do some research, for cryin' out loud. Find out what those
places typically make.
Sell
it to
him!"

A
few minutes later, when they arrived home, Mambo went straight to his laptop.
After an hour or so of Googling and surfing, he had some basic information
regarding hospitals both large and small, and a hazy idea of their cash flow
patterns, but after the events of tonight, he couldn't digest the jumble of
data and his eyelids grew heavy. He went to bed.

Silvana

Monday, June 27, 2011

10:55 AM

D
ETECTIVE SERGEANT SILVANA MACHADO
got off the phone with ballistics.
All of the victims from Friday night's Little Havana massacre were killed with
the same gun, a .45 semi-auto. One heavy fucking round. Doesn't leave much
behind after it strikes human flesh.

She
assembled the data and began straightening up her desk. Uncurl the phone cord,
first thing. Those damn things can get all twisty and messy in a hurry. Put the
pens back in the beer stein slightly to the right of center, file the loose
papers in their proper folders, and then arrange the folders themselves in a
neat row, flat on the far left of her desk, each tab showing just above the
previous one. That way, all the tabs were visible and the folders symmetrical,
displayed alphabetically. She was in the final stages of her ritual, wiping a
few specks of dust from the center of her desk, when the phone rang.

"Machado,"
Lieutenant Santos said. "You and Vargas get up here on the double."

"Yes,
sir." She rose from her desk and moved across the aisle, where she tapped
her partner Bobby Vargas on the shoulder. "Come on. Santos wants to see
us."

 
Santos left his door open to expedite the
start of this meeting. Silvana and Vargas stepped in on schedule.

They
were some pair. Machado: thirty-one. Hard, stocky build for a woman, the result
of lots of gym time. Born in Cuba, came here in '92. Mastered her English fast.
Up from the streets and it showed on her mean face. Made sergeant last year.
Vargas: twenty-eight. Solid body and big shoulders. Born in Miami to Cuban
parents. Fifth year on the force. A hothead. The perfect team.

Santos
flipped on the small fan resting on the file cabinet behind his desk and with a
finicky touch, aimed it in his direction. He removed his suit jacket and carefully
draped it over the back of his chair.

Silvana
noticed his shirt, pale blue against his charcoal gray suit. The shirt was an
extraordinary fit. She pegged it as custom-tailored.
Pretty extravagant for a cop
, she thought. Clothes, especially
those of her supervisor, were not something that usually commanded her
attention, but this shirt grabbed her. The graceful flow of the smooth material
around Santos' torso and arms was so perfect, she thought the shirt could never
possibly fit any other human being. The maroon-patterned silk tie looked pretty
pricey, too.

Santos
took his seat. The two cops remained standing.

He
was a big man, tall and broad, with a powerful voice, and he often gestured
with his hands when he spoke. His English was without accent, although growing
up in Miami, Silvana knew he spoke only Spanish at home. He was known as a
no-bullshit guy. He tells you to do something, you do it or you will regret it.
Budding careers could be made or busted on his word.

He
leaned back in his swivel chair and spread his hands. Silvana knew what was
coming."You know why I called you in here. What've you got on the Little
Havana triple homicide?" His smooth, even voice camouflaged his famous
temper.

"Not
much, sir." Silvana pushed a few strands of her limp brown hair away from
closely-set eyes and pulled out her notebook for reference. "The two male
victims were lowlifes. Edgardo Segura, aka "Chicho", DOB 5/27/72, and
Andrés Borraga, DOB 10/23/73, both from Miami. The girl was Yanet Santiago, DOB
12/11/95, a teenager, also from Miami, and well on her way to becoming an adult
lowlife. Marijuana in every room of the house, including the bathroom. All
three were killed by a .45 semi-auto. No such weapon found. No prints on the
shell casings. And there were plenty of them. All the blood belonged to the
victims. There was a Remington 12-gauge pump handle near one of the male
victims, Borraga. His prints all over it. He got two rounds off before he went
down. Must've been a hell of a shootout."

"Yes,
a hell of a shootout. Over forty-eight hours later and that's all you've got?
'A hell of a shootout'?" His voice rose a notch or two. "Any
suspects? Witnesses?"

"No
real suspects yet. We canvassed the neighborhood and found this guy —
lives across the street — who saw two men leave the house some time
before the gunplay. They were carrying a bag, or a suitcase, and getting into a
beat-up orange Mustang from the eighties. They drove away."

"He's
sure it was a Mustang?"

"Yes,
sir. Said he used to sell Fords all through the nineties. He can spot them a
mile away. This one was parked under the street light in front of his
house."

"He's
sure those two came out of the house
before
the incident?"

"Yes,
sir. He's very sure." Silvana spoke clearly, almost in a military
monotone. She stood ramrod-straight, her face hard as concrete and just as
inscrutable. "Said the gunshots occurred sometime later, like maybe
forty-five minutes. All the other neighbors confirm it. They say they heard the
gunshots at about the same time. A little before four AM. Plus, the 911 calls
reporting the gunfire were all made right around that time, within two minutes
of each other."

Santos
steepled his hands while Silvana assessed how this was going. The Lieutenant
hadn't threatened to take their badges yet, so … so far, so good.

"Do
we know who these two 'gentlemen' are?" he asked. From the dripping
sarcasm, Silvana knew the outburst might be right around the corner.

"We
ran the Mustang. Just now got the results. The only one like it registered
within a ten mile radius belongs to one Yolexis Molina, Hispanic male, DOB —"
She consulted her notebook. "— 8/8/91. I know him from around. He's
a street punk, nothing more. We're gonna brace him this morning. Soon as we
leave here."

Santos
leaned back in his chair again, rather than forward. Despite his size, he had
the look not of a cop, but of a successful corporate type of guy. Square-jawed,
hair neatly styled, sort of good-looking. And when he leaned back like that,
Silvana let out a tiny exhale of relief, because she knew he was buying into
her answers. Just like a corporate guy at a board meeting who's hearing good
numbers for the last quarter, not a raving lunatic who wants to cut your
fucking tongue out before he fires you.

"See
that you do," he said. "And don't come back without a suspect, you
got that?"

"Lieutenant,
what's the deal here?" Silvana asked. "These three — or the two
men, anyway — were known slimebags with lengthy records. The jacket on
Chicho Segura reads like America's Most Wanted. Robbery, ADW, aggravated
battery — on and on. Did a total of two years in County, two bits in
State. Numerous juvenile beefs. Nobody gives a shit if he's gone."

"I
know, I know, and normally, I wouldn't give a shit, either. We'd be pushing
ahead with more important crimes. But the female victim, turns out she was the
niece of Bob Harvey's wife."

"Who's
Bob Harvey?"

"Ha!
You don't know him? You can be thankful for that. He's a Miami-Dade County
Commissioner and his wife is Cuban. The fucker's a born troublemaker, and the
Chief is feeling his heat. This guy swings weight on the Commission and
throughout the county, and the newspapers are already playing up the girl as an
innocent teenager killed in a drug shootout. So we've got to find the one who
did this. And fast. You read me?"

"Yes,
sir." Silvana stiffened her posture, chin up, eyes straight ahead.

"Now,
I assigned this case to you and Vargas in the first place because you two get
results. A lot better than most of our teams. I'm expecting no less in this
case." Silvana thought he was through, but he said, "I ask you again.
Do … you … read me, Sergeant?"

"Loud
and clear, sir."

He
turned to Vargas. "Detective Vargas? What about you?"

Vargas
lifted himself up slightly on the balls of his feet, then back down again.
"I read you, Lieutenant. Don't worry, we'll get him."

"I
hope so. Now get out of here."