I DROPPED A grand for a new laptop and went home to write my two stories for Sarasota City Magazine. These stupid articles hung over me like a prison sentence. I wouldn’t be free until I got them done. I had to focus, get them done, and find work. I needed a job.
I wrote the articles from memory. I described the houses, invented quotes from the owners, and peppered the whole thing with fancy adjectives like quaint, elegant, rich, sparkling, magnificent. Then I went on the attack with adverbs like calmly, boldly, utterly, and surprisingly. When I was done, I had the word count I needed. Both articles were masterpieces in shit writing. But I was done. I was free. I attached the files to an e-mail, addressed it to the editor, and clicked send.
In the early evening the sky turned gray with rain clouds. I popped open a cold beer and sat on the front porch.
My mind drifted back to Nick. I couldn’t let go of it. Why did Tiffany have such an urgent need for her things? What were her things?
She looked like she was half homeless. Maybe Nick had taken her in, cleaned her up, given her money. Maybe he was fucking her. Probably. But I was pretty sure she hadn’t killed him. I couldn’t see that skinny teenager swinging that giant bronze penis, whacking him repeatedly in the head. No. She was tough, but she wasn’t strong enough. That dick was heavy.
The cops had said there was no forced entry. It had to be someone he knew. But I had no clue who Nick knew. He had offered me coke that day at his house. Who knew what kind of shit he was involved in. Maybe he owed someone money. Or maybe he pissed off his dealer. And then there was the rough guy at the bar. I don’t know.
* * *
When I finished my beer, I drove back to Nick’s place to see what was going on.
The cops were there. Again. Two cruisers and an unmarked white Grand Marquis. Probably the same one that had been there earlier in the day. I drove past. Maybe Tiffany had managed to get inside, grabbed her stuff, and split. It brought a smile to my face when I thought of her getting away with her shit. And maybe a nice original painting, an Andy Warhol or Peter Max she could sell on eBay and live happily for the rest of her life.
I came around the block and went home. On the way I stopped at the liquor store, bought a bottle of Don Julio and a twelve of Darwin’s Summadayze IPA.
When I got home there was a late-model red VW Beetle convertible parked in the driveway. I parked beside it and walked slowly around the side to the front porch. I found Holly pacing back and forth, one arm over her chest, her hand tucked under her armpit, the other hand holding her phone to her ear. She wore her hair down. Her red lips seemed to glow in the late afternoon light.
When she saw me walk up, she spoke quickly into the phone: “—I’ll call you back.”
“This is a nice surprise.” I set the box of beer on the side table.
“Dexter.” She put her phone away and hugged me. “I’ve been waiting for you for an hour.”
She smelled so nice. “Did we have a date?”
I unlocked the door and let her in. I put the booze on the kitchen counter. When I turned, she was looking the place over.
“You cleaned up,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your house look this good.”
“Yeah, the maid finally showed up after five years.”
She smiled. “I’m glad to see you still have a sense of humor.”
“Always. Want a drink?”
“No thanks. Did you report the robbery?”
“Not yet.”
“What about your laptop?”
“I got a new one.”
“That was fast,” she said and tossed her pretty blond hair to the side.
I popped open a beer and leaned against the threshold and looked at how beautiful she was. The last three years had done her a world of good. Or maybe it was the separation from Joaquin, Justice for All, del Pino.
“So what’s up?” I said. “I don’t see you in three years and suddenly you show up at my house twice in two days.”
“Dex,” she said and glanced at the ground where Mimi had just trotted past on her way outside. Then she raised her eyes. She was serious as a bullet. “Leslie, my paralegal, was at the police station today. She said she overheard Petrillo and Frey talking about you.”
“Hey, I’m famous.”
“I’m not joking, Dex. They talked about you in terms of being a suspect … in a murder.”
“What?”
She averted her eyes. “Leslie said they were making fun of you. That they had your prints on … on a giant penis.”
I laughed. The irony, the humor—the seriousness of their bullshit. I took a long drink of beer and plopped myself down on the sofa. I had worried about Tiffany when I should have been worried about me.
“It was a sculpture,” I said. “It wasn’t a real penis, it was a sculpture.”
“Jesus, Dex. Forget the penis. What’s going on?”
I told her I had helped Nick home from Memories. That he had invited me in for a drink and that was it. He had been showing off his art collection and had asked me to pick up the big penis sculpture. I told her nothing about our business deal. And I certainly didn’t mention Maya.
“Dex, Leslie says they’re going to the State Attorney. They’re going to get a warrant. If they—”
“They can’t charge me. Or at least they can’t convict me. I didn’t know the man. And I had no motive.”
“What are you talking about? Rich man is murdered in fancy bayside neighborhood. This is Sarasota. You know the cops. They might let murders in Newtown go unsolved, but not in Sapphire Shores. That’s a whole different story. And if you’re the only suspect—”
“You think I’m guilty?”
“No. But you know how they are.”
I stood, took her in my arms, brought her close. “You’re worried about me.”
She pushed me away. “Of course I am. God, Dex. Think.”
“It’s going to be fine,” I said, but really, it wasn’t. I knew what she meant. The cops could go after me if they thought they could make it stick. My prints were on that stupid penis sculpture. They could invent a motive. They probably couldn’t get me on murder one, but two, manslaughter. They had options. The prints could place me in the house with the murder weapon.
But I wasn’t going to show Holly I was worried, scared. Fuck that. No more poor Dex. No more pity party. I was no candy-ass lawyer type. I was Dexter fucking Vega.
* * *
Nothing happened with Holly. She wept, told me how worried she was, and asked me to stay in touch. Then she left because she had a date, a dinner appointment with a client.
The minute she was gone it hit me hard. If Petrillo and Frey were serious about charging me, I had to find out what was going on. But I had no access to their files, to the house, evidence. I drove to Siesta Key to see Mike Boseman. Maybe he knew Nick or knew someone who knew Nick. Either way, at the moment he was my only lead.
I pulled up to his driveway, but something was different. The Jaguar was either gone or parked in the garage. I went up the steps and knocked on the door. No answer. I went around back. All the windows and glass doors were covered with hurricane shutters, locked in place. The hammock and the cushions for the iron patio furniture were gone. The place looked as if it had been locked up for the summer.
An elderly couple sat on the patio of the house next door, drinking cocktails, enjoying the sunset. I walked to the property line and called out, “Excuse me, have you guys seen Mike around?”
They looked at each other, then the woman said, “Who?”
“Mike Bosemean, your neighbor.”
“Ah, he go in morning.” She had a slight Russian accent. “He pack up. Taxi come get him.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know this man.”
* * *
I went home and paced around the house, downing beer after beer. I told myself not to touch the tequila. I had to keep it together, stay clear. I needed to think.
Someone had killed Nick and the only thing I knew for sure was that it hadn’t been me. I should have stuck with Tiffany. Maybe she did know something after all. Or maybe the cops nabbed her and were going to make her the fall guy. Maybe she ratted me out. They could’ve showed her my picture. I could see her already, pointing at it with her skinny little fingers: “Yeah, that’s him, Officer.”
I called a friend at the department, Officer John Blake. He’d helped me out before when I was working on stories about the police culture of covering up for each other. He was my anonymous—my Deep Throat.
I caught him on his cell and gave him the skinny on what I knew about Nick Zavala and what I was looking for, but kept out a few details for my benefit. Just in case.
He laughed. “I can’t just go into the file. It’s not my case, Vega.”
“I’m not asking you to go in the file,” I said. “Just ask around. There can’t be that many murder investigations going on in Sarasota.”
“Not my department. You know that.”
“You know that fat cop with the gap between his front teeth?”
“Gasanov?”
“Yeah, I think so. Big guy.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“He was there. Petrillo and Frey have the case—”
“Frey’s an asshole.”
“I know. So’s Petrillo when it really comes down to it.”
“Okay,” he said, “so, Gasanov.”
“Right. Just ask him. See what he knows about this thing.”
“How are you involved in this, Vega?”
“I’m not.”
“Right.”
“I’ll never ask you for another favor again for as long as I live. Scout’s honor.”
I hung up with Blake, got another beer, and started a new Maya document on the computer. I laid it all down in chronological order, the whole enchilada: the rough guy at the bar, Tiffany, Maya. I left nothing out. Then I read it over to see if anything hit me. I needed a lead. I needed something to point me in the right direction.
I got bupkis.