THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I called Officer John Blake and gave him the license plate number for the Jaguar. He promised to call me back before the end of the day. Next I Googled the nonprofit BRAVO. They had a shitty web page with very little information. Their about page only said they were a charity helping children who suffered from abuse. They had a few links to anti-bullying articles and a few pictures of poor children in Mexico or some other place in Latin America. There was a contact page with a PO Box where people could send donations. They had no names, no physical address, no phone number, nothing tangible.
I smelled a rat.
I continued to search. Corporationwiki, a website that tracks all kinds of corporations and their officers, revealed that BRAVO was a domestic nonprofit that had filed for its status last September. It had a state ID number and was active and seemed on the up and up. The only key officer listed was Joaquin del Pino, Director.
That was my lead: del Pino. I called his office, but the receptionist said he was unavailable and put me through a series of questions about the nature of my call—what kind of accident I had, the type of injuries I suffered, and what insurance companies were involved. When I told her I had to talk to him about a different matter, she changed her tone and took my message. “Mr. del Pino will return your call as soon as he’s available.”
Holly Lovett. She was my next lead. She had to know everything about del Pino and probably knew everything about his shady nonprofit. I called her and, big surprise, I got her voice mail.
What was it with lawyers and phones?
I drove out to Nick’s house, just cruised by, didn’t stop. There it was in all its modern 1970s simplicity—dark and full of lies. I needed to find out what was going to happen to the house, his art collection, his fortune, and if there was a life insurance policy. I had seen nothing about that mentioned in the paper or anywhere else. I drove to the Hob Nob to get a bite to eat. The place had just been remodeled, but it retained its casual 1950s drive-in style. I sat outside and ordered a double cheeseburger with extra mustard. Then I called Jason Kirkpatrick at the newspaper. He was smug and full of himself like any twenty-nine-year-old asshole who’s being told by the editor that he’s a rising star. Been there. Done that.
“What can I help you with, buddy?”
That was a nice touch: buddy. “Listen,” I said, “you’re the one on the Nick Zavala story, right?”
“Was,” he said. “There’s nothing to write about. Nothing’s happening, buddy. Margaret has me on other assignments. Better stories.”
“Let me ask you something. Did you ever hear what was going to happen to Zavala’s money?”
“Who would I hear that from?”
“From whoever is handling his estate.”
“And who would that be?”
I laughed. “That’s why I’m calling you.”
He laughed. “No one knows anything. There’s been no statement, no release. Zippo.”
“But the guy was loaded, right? Someone’s bound to inherit his fortune.”
“How much?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Have you heard anything?”
There was a long silence. Then he said, “You working on a story?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“You were at the house the night of the murder. Who you working for, Vega?”
“No one.”
“You’re a funny guy. Full of tricks.”
“Come on, Jason.”
“I gotta go.” He hung up. That little piss-ass motherfucker hung up on me. The waitress brought my food. I dug into that cheeseburger like it was my last meal.
* * *
I drove up and down the North Trail again, looking for Tiffany without a plan, without really knowing why. She probably had nothing to do with Nick other than sex. Maybe she could tell me something I didn’t know. But there were no guarantees with her. She probably wouldn’t even talk to me. She was tough, took shit from no one. Even if I found her it didn’t mean she would spill the beans—if she had any beans to spill.
I went all the way to downtown Bradenton and back. Twice. Nothing.
The heat and the meal and the days were weighing on me. I drove home. I deserved a nap. I checked my e-mail and lay down on the couch with Mimi. Just when I closed my eyes and began to sink into a pleasant and well-deserved nap, there was a knock on the door.
“Mind if I come in?”
I moved aside. He walked with his hands in his pants pockets, looked around casually.
I spread my arms. “Can I offer you a beer?”
“Sure,” he said and ran his hand through his thick mane of hair.
I went into the kitchen, popped open a couple of cold Big Tops. He studied the label.
“Local brew,” I said.
He nodded and took a long sip. “Not bad.”
I smiled and leaned against the wall.
“Listen.” He walked slowly across the living room and sat on the couch. I took the desk chair across the living room.
“I have this feeling you know more about what’s going on than we do.”
“About what, the Zavala case?”
He nodded, took a long drink of beer.
“And?”
“I know you don’t like me.” He paused for a moment and looked at the label on the beer again. “You hate cops.”
“I hate bad cops.”
“Come on, you got a chip on your shoulder—”
“We got one of the worst departments in—”
“Okay, we’re not perfect. But we try.”
I rolled my eyes. I thought of my father stepping out of the car on that hot dry afternoon outside San Antonio. And the cop with his hand on his pistol, pointing at my father with his finger, telling him to get down. My father raising his hands, getting on his knees, his arms out like Jesus Christ. And the cop …
“You forget who you work for,” I said, my voice cracking at the edges.
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
He waved, a nice easy gesture that was as vague as his intentions. “We’re not perfect, Dexter. No one is.”
I took a long drink of my beer. “Get to the point.”
“Frey wants to nail you for the murder. He’s playing Clint Eastwood or some shit. I want to nail the real murderer.”
“Really?”
“Your prints are on the penis sculpture … the murder weapon. It’s just a matter of time before Frey and the State Attorney’s office build themselves a convincible case.”
“The prints are not enough.”
He nodded. “Their case is full of holes. But they’re patching them up real quick. That kiddie porn on your computer’s going to nail the coffin. You know that.”
“You asking me to confess?”
He smiled a dry ridiculous smile. “I know you didn’t do it.”
Now it was my turn to smile. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve been doing this for a long time. I can tell. You don’t have the MO. Besides, the date on the porn files are all the same, two days after the murder. It’s obvious it was planted. And then there’s motive. I can’t place you there. You have no motive. Hell, we can’t even connect you with Zavala. And shit. I can see it in your goddamn eyes.” He pointed at me with his beer. “You’re not a bad guy.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be.”
I fetched us another couple of cold ones. I wasn’t sure I could trust Petrillo. He was a cop. I was not a part of the brotherhood. I was an outsider. And, after all I had learned during my reporting, after everything I’d written, I knew I was the enemy. Except to the cops who were really interested in doing the right thing, officers like my inside man, John Blake.
“Tell me what you have on the case,” I said. “Everything.”
He looked at me and sighed long and slow. “What I told you about Zavala, and the porn, some drugs, but not enough to indicate he was dealing. A few ounces of coke, pot, and a few pills. Oxycontin, Vicodin. Not something that would put him away. So he was a user. Maybe his dealer did it. We don’t know.”
“Any other prints?”
He looked at me like I had something coming down my face. Then he glanced at his shoes. “Tiffany Roberts. A sixteen-year-old runaway. Originally from Fort Myers. Now in Sarasota. She has three priors with the Lee County Sheriff’s office, all drug possession. She also had a prior in Sarasota for prostitution. We picked her up on the North Trail last week and turned her in to Child Services. That’s how it works, right?”
“I didn’t make the rules.”
“Her prints are all over the house, but not in the study where Zavala was killed. Besides, she’s a tiny little thing. I can’t see her banging his head with that big bronze dildo.”
“Tell me something, how did you guys end up with my laptop?”
“Anonymous tip,” he said.
“Would that be the same anonymous who called you to tip you off when I broke into Boseman’s house?”
Petrillo shrugged. “Sometime last week the computer showed up on my desk.”
“Just like that.”
He nodded. “Just like that.”
“Maybe your fairy godmother put it there.”
He spread his arms. “It’s how it happened.”
“You’re a cop. Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious, a laptop materializing out of nowhere, and then someone calling you about me breaking into Boseman’s place?”
“What’d you expect me to do, toss it out? It’s evidence.”
“You know, for a while I thought it was you and Frey trying to frame me. But now I can see you’re too dumb for something like that. Someone’s trying to put this shit on me.”
Petrillo grinned. “Yeah, who?”
I laughed. “I wish I knew.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on. Why are your prints on the murder weapon?”
I stared at his eyes, waved a finger at him. “Against the advice of my lawyer,” I said. “I’m going to tell you something. You’re off duty. You’re drinking. And you let Frey punch me in the gut when I wasn’t resisting, wasn’t even looking. You fuck with me, Petrillo, and I will not just have internal affairs rip you a new one, I’ll go to the feds. And the press.”
“Take it easy.”
“I’m not fucking with you. I’ve done nothing wrong. But you motherfuckers have me running like a rabbit—”
“That’s Frey.”
“That’s both of you.”
He raised his hands. Then he set his beer down on the coffee table. It was empty. I figured this was a good time to bring out the tequila. Two glasses. No lime.
Petrillo drank it like a gringo. Shot after shot down the hatch. I sipped. When I put my glass down, he looked at me and sighed like he was expecting a miracle.
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “I met Nick at a bar a few weeks ago, and he hired me to find his daughter who had been attending New College but had fallen off the map in the last few months.”
“She did?”
“You guys were on it.”
“You looked into it. You dropped the case. There was no sign of foul play. The girl’s a woman. Twenty-two. She can do whatever she wants.”
Petrillo shook his head. “We’d follow through. Missing persons case. There’s no record on Zavala. I looked.”
“Bullshit.”
He stared at me, his eyes a little bloodshot. No. He wasn’t lying. Zavala was.
Petrillo frowned. “Did he pay you?”
“That’s my business. But that’s why my fingerprints are on that big bronze dick. He was showing it off, asked me to pick it up and feel it’s weight.”
“What about the daughter?”
“I found out she was in Mexico doing research. When I came to his place to tell him, I found you picking up his dead body.”
“And that’s it?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “But then it got weird. Turns out his daughter’s not really his daughter. And she’s not doing research in Mexico. She just wanted to get the fuck away. He was obsessed with her. Zavala did some pretty fucked-up shit. Maya just wanted out, so she bailed. Disappeared. Started her own life.”
“You think maybe she did it?”
I shook my head. Then I poured us a couple more shots. Nothing like a drunken cop. I smiled. “You know Michael Boseman?”
“The house you broke into …”
“Well, he was the fucker who started that Hollywood-Sarasota studio bullshit a few years back, remember that? The city gave him a few million in grant money, and he never did shit with it.”
“Yeah, I remember that. The county sued him, then he countersued.”
“So what does he have to do with Zavala?”
“It turns out Zavala’s non-daughter was dating him.”
“So you think he did it.”
I nodded. “That’s my hunch. He left his house shuttered the day after I came asking questions. Then, when you and that asshole Frey threatened me with pinning the murder on me—”
“I never said that.”
“Whatever.” This wasn’t so bad, coming clean to a cop who couldn’t arrest you even if he wanted. “The point is, I went to Mexico to look for this woman, Zavala’s daughter. And who do I fucking bump into? Boseman.”
He waved his hand left to right. “They’re in it together.”
“I don’t know. But Nick Zavala’s a sick motherfucker. Apparently he picked up runaway kids, twelve-, thirteen-, fifteen-year-olds. He took them in and took care of them, cleaned them up, gave them drugs. Had sex with them.”
“Tiffany Roberts.”
“They were all minors. Tiffany and Maya and who knows how many others.”
“That son of a bitch.”
“Amen.”
Petrillo tilted his head and squinted at me. “You went to Mexico?”
I smiled. “Nick paid me well.”
He shook his head. “But this guy, Boseman. Is he still in Mexico?”
“I don’t know. He was. Someone’s been in his house.”
“Who?”
“Fuck if I know. You arrested me, remember?”
“Jesus, lighten up, Vega.”
“I’ll lighten up when this shit’s over.”
“So how did you know someone was in the house?”
“Someone’s taking care of the mail. They took out the trash, parked the Jaguar in the garage.”
I served us another tequila. I could tell he was flying high. But he was thinking. He was trying to put the pieces together. I appreciated that. He took his drink in a shot and grimaced. Then he waved his index finger at me. “What about the motive?” he said.
“Because of Maya. How would you feel if you found out the girl you’re in love with had been kept as a sex slave for ten years? I think Boseman found out about Maya’s past, went crazy mad, and killed Nick for what he did to her.”
He nodded. “Makes sense.”
“But there’s another possibility: money.”
Petrillo perked up. “Money and love. The two deadly motives.”
“And self-defense.”
“That’s not a motive.”
“Zavala was rich, right?”
“And then some.”
“Who’s getting the money?”
He twirled his empty glass on the table like a top. Then he raised his half-closed eyes and pointed at me. “We’re looking into it. The old guy’d been through a handful of lawyers and had a very complicated will. They’re still sorting it out.”
“And his life insurance?”
He smiled and stood. He was a little wobbly on his way out. I stood in the front yard and watched him get in his car. “Two mil,” he said before backing out of the driveway. “And it’s all going to Maya Edwards.”