AS I DROVE home, the severity of the situation sank in. My stomach ached. My hands were shaking. I needed a drink—something hard and messy and fast—Bourbon or Mezcal.
I stepped into the house and saw the mess. Everything had been disturbed, gone through, tossed, fucked with. The couch cushions had been pulled out, tossed on the floor. The fabric sliced. Books, clothes all over the place. Records—my precious vinyl—scattered like trash. The whole place was upside down.
I ran to the kitchen and pulled out my cookbooks. There it was. Between the pages of Diana Kennedy’s book: the five grand.
The laptop. I froze for a moment trying to piece it together: all the moments of the last twenty-four hours raining down on me like rocks.
It was gone. They’d taken the laptop. But my stereo was there, untouched: an open-face vintage Scott 222c, the Thorens 160, B&W speakers. All together they could fetch over a grand, maybe two. That was a lot of money in my world. They hadn’t touched the TV either. Just the laptop.
I dropped on the desk chair. Mimi came out from somewhere in the mess, strutting her stuff. She hopped on the couch and stretched and yawned like nothing was wrong. Well, that was that. At least I hadn’t been pummeled to death like Nick Zavala. All the money in the world was useless wherever he was now.
I took a long, deep breath, pushed myself off the chair, and went to the cupboard by the fridge. In the very back I found an old bottle of tequila, shitty stuff whose name, Grande Sombrero, didn’t even make any sense. Probably 30 percent agave, 70 percent rotgut. It had two shots left. I put them down like a college kid on Cinco de Mayo.
I plopped down on the bare couch, my ass sinking deep between the broken springs. I ran everything through my faulty brain, every damn detail I could think of, but I couldn’t see a blip. Nothing. Why would someone want my laptop?
It was a four-year-old MacBook Pro. Not worth much. The stereo—the records—were worth at least five times as much. My computer had addresses, my e-mail inbox, the research from my stories for the last four years, and the drafts of the stories for Sarasota City Magazine.
What really got me was my e-mail in-box. I had a lot of data, a lot of conversations in there. It made me nauseous just to think someone, some fucking criminal, had access to my personal life, my past—e-mails between my ex-wife and me, Holly and me. I rushed to the bathroom and gave everything back to the toilet. I sat on the floor, arm draped over the commode. It wasn’t just the burglary, but the whole thing: getting laid off, Nick’s murder. And Holly.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of the good old days, of sitting back in the newsroom, the phone hanging on my shoulder, believing the world was anxiously awaiting my next hard-hitting piece. I had been so sure of myself. I was the first one in my family to go to college. My parents had their own story of struggle—children of Mexican immigrants who came to this country during WWII and worked in the fields and factories. My sister and I were raised by my mother. But what left me with a chip on my shoulder, that anger that motivated me to become a journalist, to kick ass hard and hold nothing back, had nothing to do with them. Everyone struggles. It was my father and what happened to him—what I witnessed that summer day in 1980 made me who I became. It was the lone reason why I couldn’t fail.
Now I was a fucked-up has-been unemployed reporter for a small-town paper. All the hard work, the anger, the resolution, the desire, the accomplishments—it had all been for nothing. I was as good as my dying father on that lone stretch of asphalt outside San Antonio, Texas.
A noise out front startled me out of my misery. I struggled to stand.
I heard the front door open and the screen door slam shut. “Dex?”
“Holly?”
I washed my face, rinsed my mouth.
“What’s going on, Dex?”
I stumbled out of the bathroom. Holly was standing in the middle of the living room. She was perfect, too perfect. Totally out of place. She didn’t belong here, in this pathetic mess. And I could tell she could see it. It was crystal clear from her expression. She was disgusted.
But she was sweet. She caressed my cheek. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“What are you, spring cleaning?”
“Not me,” I said. “Someone broke in.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wouldn’t treat my records like this.”
“My God, Dex. Did you call the police?”
“Not yet.”
“Did they take anything?”
“Just my laptop.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I took her arm and walked her slowly over the debris to the couch. “First thing in the morning.”
She stared at the mess. “It’s worth a try. But they rarely recover stolen goods. Statistics—”
“I know, I know. It’s a one in a million. It was probably some crack head who’s going to try and pawn it somewhere.”
“You have a serial number?”
“I got it somewhere, I’m sure.”
“Dex.” I could see the pity over her green eyes. “I’m worried about you.”
I was down, a little buzzed, confused. My mind was twirling. I wanted to crawl into the bottom of the couch, disappear.
“I waited for you at Michael’s on East,” she said. “What happened?”
“I left you a dozen voice mails. You never responded.”
She smiled, but it looked forced. “I never got a message, Dex. I tried calling you like an hour ago.”
I pulled out my phone. There it was, a missed call from a number I didn’t recognize.
“But, I called,” I mumbled and pressed buttons into my phone. I showed her the calls.
“That’s my old number, silly.”
She was nice enough to help me clean up a bit, pick up the records and clear a path to the bedroom. She fed Mimi and made some tea, which tasted like shit. Then she told me we’d get together another time.
It hurt, not because she left or because she saw me like this, but because she felt sorry for me. It was like a dagger in my heart.
* * *
In the morning I shook off all the depressing shit from the previous night and met the merciless Florida sun with a big smile. True. Nothing had changed as far as my life was concerned, but I hadn’t gotten drunk for the first time since I was laid off from the paper. I slept a solid ten hours. The clarity with which I processed reality was phenomenal.
I cleaned the house. But I didn’t just put things back in their place. I cleaned the shit out of the place, so by late afternoon it looked like a feature in Architectural Digest.
I still had to deal with the two articles I had pending for Sarasota City Magazine. They were due in a few days, but my drafts were in my laptop. I wasn’t sweating the articles. They were brainless fodder for people who liked to read about themselves. There was nothing special about the places I was writing about. They were just like all the other McMansions in town, decorated by a hired hack who filled the rooms with so much crap they looked like displays.
I knew I could wing the articles. I just had to get another computer, sit tight for a few hours, and spill it. All I had to do was load the copy with adjectives and adverbs and gush about the beauty and originality of the place. The editor would love it, and I would get my check.
I drove north to the computer store that’s just past the airport. But as I passed the art school, I couldn’t help veering off the Trail and taking Bay Shore Road. I told myself I was only taking the scenic route, but the truth was that I was curious. I wanted to see what was going on around Nick’s place.
There was a police cruiser and an unmarked police car, a white Grand Marquis, in the driveway. They were still investigating. It set off a small alarm in the back of my head. The cops were not just going to let this one fall off the radar. Or maybe they had no suspects and needed to find one. Anyone.
I turned the corner and pulled up a few yards ahead of the house so I could sit and watch the action through the rearview mirror. I was curious to see who was leading the charge: Petrillo or the new guy.
It wasn’t long before a uniformed officer walked out to his cruiser. He grabbed a black case from the trunk and walked back in the house. Maybe it was routine, but it looked off. The cops seemed to have real purpose, going above and beyond for old Nick.
When I switched my glance, I noticed a teenage girl standing on the other side of the street ahead of me. She was staring at Nick’s house. She was blond, barefoot, and wore cutoff jean shorts and a pink tank top.
She stood with her arms crossed, slightly hidden from Nick’s house by a couple of small palms. It was pretty obvious what she was doing. Then it hit me: the topless girl taking in the sun by the pool when I visited Nick that day. Her eyes shifted back and forth from the house to the street. She looked impatient, scared, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, biting her fingernail.
I got out of the car and walked to the end of the block. I didn’t look at her, but I could tell she was watching me. I crossed the street to her corner. She fidgeted, turned away.
“How’s it going?”
She glanced at me and shrugged. Then she looked ahead at Nick’s house.
“You remember me?” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“At Nick’s house a couple days ago.”
She dropped her arms to her sides. “I ain’t never seen you before in my life.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But I saw you hanging out by the pool. Naked.”
There was movement in front of Nick’s house. The uniformed cop walked out. He got in his cruiser, but didn’t drive away.
“They’re looking for clues,” I said.
She turned her eyes toward me.
Looking at her now, up close, she appeared to be fifteen, maybe sixteen. She was pretty, but rough around the edges, baby fat filling her chin and cheeks. It was obvious life had toughened her up. Like a runaway. On the back of her shoulder she had a colorful tattoo of a butterfly.
“Oh yeah?”
“They’re trying to figure out who killed Nick,” I said.
“I don’t know nothin’ about that.”
I smiled. “You a neighbor?”
“Sort of.”
“You don’t live around here, do you?”
She laughed and pointed to a large obnoxious mansion three houses down on the next block. “I live in that big house over there. My daddy’s a big-time lawyer. He’s pals with the mayor. So fuck off.”
“It must be nice,” I said.
“What the fuck you want?”
“You’re Nick’s friend. Cindy, right?”
She took a step back, looked me up and down. “You a cop?”
“Do I look like one?”
She shrugged and turned her gaze back to Nick’s house. The young detective from last night—Frey—had just walked out. He had a small plastic bag with him. He checked in with the policeman in the cruiser and then got in his Grand Marquis. They both drove off.
As soon as the cars were out of sight, Cindy started toward Nick’s house.
I grabbed her arm. She tore way. “Hands off, creep!”
“What do you think happened? Someone broke in and beat the shit outta him.”
“Who?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Did you see him?”
“I didn’t see shit.”
She started for the house again. I walked after her. “Look, Cindy—”
“It’s Tiffany, you dumb ass.”
“Right. Tiffany.”
She went right up to the house, raised the police’s plastic yellow do-not-cross tape, and tried the door. It was locked. She turned around and looked past me at the street.
“What’s going on?”
“I gotta get my shit.”
She looked to the left and right then made her way around the house. There was a wall about seven feet high with a gate without a latch, only a handle. It opened from the inside. She looked around like she was lost.
Then she gestured at me with a wave of her hand. “Help me up.”
“What?”
“Help me over.”
“No.” This was an active crime scene. Crossing it was a felony. If we got busted, we could become suspects. If they heard my voice mail, found my prints, I would be on Petrillo’s radar. I was not going to give them any help.
Tiffany waved me over and stomped her foot like a bratty child. “Come on, man.”
I stepped back from the gate and shook my head. “If you didn’t kill Nick, you have nothing to worry about.”
“You can’t do this. It’s illegal.”
“If you help me, I’ll tell you everything I know.”
I walked to the gate, stared at her.
She bit her lip. “I swear.”
I took a deep breath, laced my fingers together, and leaned over, offering her a step. She placed one of her dirty bare feet in my hands. I hoisted her up. She placed her other leg up on the wall and pushed herself over.
She didn’t open the gate. I pulled the handle. “Hey, open up.”
I heard her walking away. I jumped up, pulled myself up—no easy feat—and rolled over the wall to the other side.
Tiffany was already by the wall of sliding glass doors. She tried one after the other, cursing after each one until she came to the last one. When that one didn’t open, she looked back at the pool, at me, at the wall of glass. She backed up, picked up a carved rock ashtray from one of the patio tables, stomped back to the glass door.
I yelled: “No!”
She threw the ashtray. It hit the glass door and bounced right back and hit her in the face. She stumbled back, brought her hands to her face.
“What the fuck?” she yelled through her hands. She was looking down, blood dripping from her nose on to the stone patio. All I could think of was: evidence.
“They’re impact resistant,” I said. “For hurricanes.”
She looked at me, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Then she pulled the handles of the sliding glass doors back and forth like a frustrated child.
She was crazy. And I had no business risking jail time. I owed nothing to Nick Zavala. It was just curiosity.
“Tell me what you know,” I said. “What happened to Nick?”
She looked at me like I was insane. But I could see in her eyes that she was out of it. Her pupils were dilated. “Fuck you.”
“Hey,” I said. “I helped you over the wall.”
“Help me get inside,” she said and pointed at the glass doors.
“No. That wasn’t the deal. What happened?”
“Go to hell,” she cried and then screamed in frustration, her arms flailing like she was swatting a swarm of bees around her head.
I tried. That was that. It was time to leave. The cops could be coming back any minute. I wasn’t going to be caught behind police lines, in a crime scene with some psycho whose fingerprints were all over the house.
I flicked the latch on the gate and walked quickly back to my Subaru. The whole way to the computer store, I kept telling myself that Tiffany knew nothing. She was bluffing. That she was just someone who knew Nick. Whoever she was, she wasn’t reliable. And besides, it wasn’t my job to find the murderer. I wasn’t a cop. I wasn’t writing a story. I was done with it.