THE AC REPAIRMAN arrived. He had to change a $120 gizmo in my air handler. At least Mimi didn’t seem to mind the heat. She was lying in my desk chair like she owned the damn thing.
I pulled a cold beer from the fridge and called Holly again. It went right to voice mail. I began to grow paranoid. Maybe the whole thing had been hatched up in my drunken imagination. Maybe the reason I was so taken with her had to do with the fact that we never really completed our relationship. We’d had no real definition. We were never really an item, but it was more than just dating. It was a strange, noncommittal relationship. We were best friends. We had sex—great, fun sex. And then it was over. Just like that. We both let it go. But deep down I’d wanted more. I’d wanted to make a go of it—try for the real thing. But you know what they say: if you love someone, set them free. So like a fool, I let her go. Only then did I realize she was never mine to begin with.
But like my good friend the photographer Rachel Mann told me while I drowned my sorrows after losing Holly, no girl wants freedom. She said what Holly really wanted was to see me step up to the plate, tell her I loved her, offer commitment.
Of course, Rachel was gay. What did she know? And she was too late with her advice anyway. We were drinking at the Bahi Hut, an old drinking hole on the North Trail. I was in miserable shape. I had just learned that Holly had hooked up with del Pino. Rachel stroked my hair, ordered another round of Mai Tais, and gave me the most solid piece of advice on women anyone has ever given me: “You need to make a woman feel like she’s wanted. Read between the lines. Fight for her. Show her you give a shit.”
That was three years ago when I was a fool and totally full of myself—when I still believed in journalism. And in myself. It took me almost forty years to learn the greatest life lesson: never put your career ahead of your own happiness.
I’m bitter. I’m bitter about drinking the fucking Kool-Aid and believing all the bullshit they fed me in journalism school. I’m bitter about my divorce, about the paper, about not seeing Zoe enough, about what happened to my father. And, yeah, I’m also bitter about my breakup with Holly.
I called Holly again. Still no answer. Maybe she was avoiding me. Paranoia began to crawl over me. No. I needed to chill. We needed to start over clean. We needed to do it right this time. One thing I was sure about was that I had to act soon. She’d dropped the lawyer. I had to make my move before another one of those vultures in suits snatched her away.
* * *
The AC repairman finished his work. The vents in the old house blowing cold shook me out of my daze. I pushed my thoughts of Holly aside and focused on what was important: Maya Zavala. Now, there was a mystery woman. She was pretty, ambitious, and obviously rich. She had everything anyone could want, and yet there she was in some muck lake in Mexico digging for reptiles like a ten-year-old boy.
I was intrigued. I couldn’t figure why I couldn’t find anything on the web about her. It got me going. I mean, who has a nonexistent digital footprint these days?
But there was something else. I stared at her picture for a long time. There was something in her eyes, like a wisdom beyond her years. She must have been seventeen, maybe eighteen when the photograph was taken. She looked like a senior going to the prom. But she also looked like a woman. Like someone who had lived and was already jaded by life. There was a sadness, a cynicism—something dark behind her large brown eyes.
By seven p.m. Holly still hadn’t called. It was too late to make dinner plans, especially at a nice place like Michael’s on East. Without a reservation, we’d never get a table. And that was the date—the place where I could swoon her to my side. That’s what we’d dreamed of doing in the old days.
Nothing was going to happen—not tonight. I texted her and told her to call me tomorrow. Right now I had to deal with business. I called Nick. I had to give him the news. Maya was in old Mexico. I imagined he’d be thrilled. But as the phone rang, I felt my stomach do a little dance. What if he asked for some money back?
I had only worked two days for ten grand. Then again, he might ask me to go to Mexico.
There was no answer. I left him a vague voice mail. I figured some things should not be left on machines. I just said we needed to talk so we could move forward. When I hung up I fed Mimi, took a shower, drank the last beer in the house, and left. My plan was to stop in at Nick’s, give him the lowdown, then pop over to Memories Lounge and get happy.
The sun had just set behind the bay when I turned off the North Trail and approached Nick’s house. Blue and red lights reflected on the hood of my Subaru like Christmas decorations. Five police cruisers crowded the driveway. At first it was like a dream, like it couldn’t be happening in the place where I was going, that Nick’s place was not surrounded by cops, that my job had either ended or gotten complicated.
The officers were Sarasota PD. That was better than dealing with the hillbillies from the County sheriff’s office. I pulled up on the side, just off Bay Shore, slightly ahead of the driveway, and walked back toward the house.
A handful of neighbors were standing in a tight group staring at the circus. The good citizens of Sapphire Shores dressed in shorts and t-shirts maintaining a polite distance from the action, taking photos with their smartphones, gossiping. I was sure their curiosity was burning like wildfire.
I walked up the driveway. Then I saw the crime scene van. It was like walking into a crooked photograph. The cops were moving in slow motion, talking among themselves outside the house. One of them saw me coming, and as if by some secret order, they all turned and stared, waiting for me to reach them. Then the fat one with the sergeant stripes raised his hand to stop me.
The whole gig flashed before my eyes: the ten grand, Maya Zavala, the topless girl, the damn salamanders.
“Sir,” the fat cop said. He had a wide gap between his two front teeth. “No one’s allowed through. One of my officers will be taking statements from the neighbors in a few minutes. If you—”
“I’m not a neighbor.”
“You with the paper?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I spotted Rachel Mann, her black curly hair and a pair of heavy Canon cameras hanging on her skinny little neck. She was talking to Detective Jack Petrillo at the entrance to the house. I called out: “Rachel!”
She waved. The big sergeant saw this and moved aside, letting me pass. I joined Petrillo and Rachel by the front door.
Rachel gave me an awkward hug, her cameras pressing against my stomach. “I got some serious gossip for you,” I said.
“What are you doing here?”
“Isn’t that what he’s supposed to ask?”
Rachel smiled and laced her arm around mine. “We’re a team.”
Detective Petrillo grinned. “He’s no longer with the paper.”
“So?” I said. “I’m still a member of the press. What’s going on here?”
Petrillo hesitated, but his ego was his biggest weakness. One day he was going to be chief of police, mayor of the city, governor of the Sunshine State. His ego was either going to make his career or destroy it. But right now that’s what gave us leverage. We were press. He wanted the attention. He ran his hand over his thick mane of black hair, the stink of too much Paco Rabanne polluting the air. He gave us a politician’s smile full of straight white teeth. “We have a body. We’re treating it as a homicide.”
My knees felt weak. I grabbed Rachel’s arm.
“Can we go in and take a look?” she asked. She was relentless. Her livelihood depended on it. If she was working for the paper, she was either getting a hundred bucks for the assignment or fifty for a picture. No picture, no money. It was a shit life.
Petrillo seemed to be weighing the request, considering the pros and cons, probably wondering how to capitalize on the moment.
“Officer Gasanov,” he called to the fat cop in the driveway. “I’m taking these folks in for a quick tour. No one comes inside.”
Gasanov nodded and turned back to face the street where more neighbors had gathered. There were kids on bikes, couples with dogs. It was a real show.
When we walked into the living room, Rachel spied the Warhol. “Nice.”
“Fake,” Petrillo announced.
“Well, probably,” he corrected himself. “No one has an art collection like this unless they’re a museum.”
“Maybe the guy had taste,” I said.
“And beaucoup bucks,” Petrillo said and led us into the study—the same place where Nick had tossed me an envelope with ten grand two days ago. I averted my eyes, my brain racing with all the possible implications. My message was probably still in his voice mail. This wasn’t good.
When Rachel saw all the sexual paraphernalia lining the shelves, she smiled and raised her camera. “What is this, paradise?”
Petrillo shook his head and placed his arm around Rachel. He reined her in. “No pictures, okay? Please.”
“Come on, Detective. Give me a break.”
“Not here,” he said. “Not right now.”
Rachel gave me a look. But I had my own problems.
Two women with the medical examiners office were taking notes, both of them wearing blue latex gloves, Nikon’s hanging from their necks. One of them looked familiar. She had a pierced nose and dyed black hair, like Joan Jett. Rachel leaned close to me. “She’s the guitar player of the Funky Donkeys.”
I had seen the band once, couldn’t remember the music. The woman nodded at Rachel, gave her a brief smile. I glanced at Rachel. She grinned and whispered in my ear: “I fucked her.”
A plainclothes detective was crouched down behind the desk where a white sheet covered the body of Nick Zavala. A pool of blood had run down the grout lines of the tile to the edge of the Persian rug where the giant penis sculpture by Louise Bourgeois lay on the floor, a police tag taped to one of the testicles.
“Death by penis.” Petrillo laughed.
It almost knocked me over.
The detective who was examining the body stood. “What the hell is this, Petrillo?” He had a light southern accent. He didn’t look happy.
“It’s okay.” Petrillo made a gesture with his hand. “It’s just for background. No photos.” Then he looked at me. “Everything’s off the record.”
I raised my hands to show him I agreed. My hands trembled. I brought them down quick, forced a smile. I had never seen the detective before. He was young, maybe late twenties, and very pale. “So what do you think happened?”
The detective glared at me. Then he turned to Petrillo. “Chief Miller hears about this, it’s your ass.”
Miller was Jennifer Miller, the chief of police. Maybe that was the card Petrillo was playing. I knew Chief Miller and she knew me. I had embarrassed her after an article I wrote on how the cops in this town are a bunch of morons who have zero accountability when arresting or shooting people caused a big stink. The report led to an official investigation. It found that the department was not following procedure in at least 30 percent of arrests where excessive force had been used. The cops especially liked to beat up on homeless people and minorities. Sarasota PD promptly lost their accreditation. They were not the worst police force in the country. Not by a long shot. But they were ignorant and full of themselves.
“Take it easy, Frey,” Petrillo said. He was cautious, like a man playing chess. “I’ll take full responsibility.”
Petrillo had been with the force eleven years. He was a pro. He knew how to play people, managed to stay alive when everyone else got chopped. Now, he sounded as if he was daring this new detective to cross him.
The detective turned his eyes to me and reluctantly spilled a handful of beans. “Someone beat his head to a pulp with that giant dildo.”
Petrillo glanced at me. “No sign of a forced entry.”
The detective frowned, stepped over the body, and stomped quickly out of the study.
“Don’t mind Detective Frey,” Petrillo said. “He’s new.”
“Was there a struggle?” I asked. I was thinking of the rough guy at the bar and the pounding he gave Nick.
Petrillo shook his head. “The perpetrator must have known the victim. But whoever did it went above and beyond.” He looked past the medical examiners. “There’s brain matter and cranium fragments all over the shelves. His head was mush. Literally.”
“Another beautiful day in paradise,” I said. It was an act on my part. I was freaking. That was Nick under that sheet. And I’d just been dealing with him. A tense and shitty mix of guilt and fear pushed up my throat. I felt like throwing up.
My eyes moved all over the study, trying to record everything: the dildos on the shelf—now splattered with dark blood stains—the papers on the desk, the computer monitor, the pens in a penholder, the Andres Serrano sketch of multiple tiny penises hanging on a side wall, the photographs of Nick as a young man standing in front of one of his sex shops with a woman whom I assumed had been his first wife.
The furniture was the same, but the chairs had been moved around from when I had been here last. Probably the cops. Maybe the murderer. Not unusual. My mind turned at the speed of light, trying to pick everything up, trying to figure out what the fuck happened because I had a very clear vision of how the cops could turn this on me.
“You have any suspects?” It came out of my mouth like I was a kid asking for ice cream.
Petrillo’s eyes grew wide just enough that I noticed his interest in my question, as if he’d either been waiting for it, or not expecting it at all.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I don’t,” I said. “You guys have more unsolved murders than any other department in the state. I’m just curious if this is going to be another notch on the department’s record.”
“That’s bullshit, Vega. You know, I broke protocol letting you in here. You give me that crap.”
“Get angry,” I said. “But it’s a fact. I’m just wondering if you have any ideas, clues, leads, whatever.”
“We’re looking into it.”
One of the medical examiners took a photo and the flash filled the study with white light. It brought me out of my trance. I wasn’t here to do a story for the paper. I had come to tell Nick about Maya. I was done.
The other detective came back into the study. He didn’t look at us but nodded to one of the medical examiners. He put on a pair of blue gloves, and the two of them picked up the big penis and placed it in a plastic evidence bag.
“Come on.” Petrillo raised his arms. “Let’s give them some room.”
Rachel, who had been mesmerized by the sexual paraphernalia and the guitar player for the Funky Donkeys, shook her head and led the way out of the study.
“So you got an ID on the body?” I was trying to sound tough, aloof.
“We’re going to have to get that through fingerprints or dental records.” Petrillo paused and looked at Rachel and me for a moment. Then he leaned closer. “It’s probably Nick Zavala. It’s his place. But don’t print that.”
Rachel leaned her weight on one leg. “Am I going to get a picture?”
Petrillo pointed to the side of the house. “That would be a good place. Stay out of the way. When they roll out the gurney with the body, you can snap a couple. That suit you okay?”
Rachel smiled. I nodded and walked out of the house with her. We stopped between one of the police cars and the house. She grabbed my arm. “So what’s the gossip?”
“What?”
“You said you had something juicy for me.”
I looked at her big brown eyes. They took amazing, powerful photographs. I was lost for a minute, my mind swimming in ideas of Nick Zavala, images of him opening the door to his house in his bathing suit, of him offering me a drink, cocaine, money. Of my hands all over the bronze sculpture.
“Dexter.”
“I saw Holly,” I said quickly. “She kissed me.”
“Get out!”
Rachel loved drama, especially where it concerned Holly and me. Maybe she also had a crush on her. Why not? “But we were both a little drunk,” I said.
“So what? True feelings reveal themselves when you’re drunk.”
“Yeah, except I’ve called and texted her five times today, and she won’t answer me.”
“Don’t obsess. You do that. You obsess over shit all the time. You gotta give her some room.”
“Didn’t you tell me I had to show her I cared?”
“Yeah, but take it easy. Don’t badger the woman. You’re gonna freak her out.”
I stabbed my chest with my thumb. “She’s freaking me out.”
“Man, you’re going to fuck it up again. Let her hunger a little.”
She looked behind me where the police line kept the small crowd back. “There’s my reporter interviewing Petrillo.” Then she looked at me. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Just passing by on my way to a friend’s house.”
“Bullshit. You don’t have any friends.”
I smiled and backed away. “We should get together sometime. Have a drink.”
“Or a big bottle of Fireball.” She laughed and ambled toward the house where Petrillo had told her to wait for the gurney.
I walked under the police tape and down the block to my car.