THE PHONE WOKE me up. It was John Blake. “Dexter?”
“What is it?”
“The license plate belongs to a 2017 Jaguar XJ registered to a Michael Jones Boseman.”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“I just thought it might belong to someone else.”
“Sorry, man. Anything else?”
“I don’t think so.”
I took a deep breath. I had fallen asleep early last night. I’d had no calls or messages from del Pino or Holly. To hell with del Pino, I expected that. But Holly? I was beginning to worry about that girl.
I put on Fleetwood Mac’s Then Play On, from 1969. It was the last album with Peter Green, and kind of broke my heart because it showed where the band could have gone with their music—that interesting limbo between blues and something else, something so new it didn’t exist. But it was also a good thinking album. I made a nice breakfast for Mimi and me—fried eggs, bacon, fried potatoes and onions with a generous squirt of Sriracha hot sauce. I served Mimi her dry cat food and put her plate on the table across from me. Nothing like the company of a cat. They don’t complain and they leave you alone so you can think.
Later, I sat down at the computer to work on my Maya document. I had to shift my pattern of thinking from finding Maya, to making sense of Boseman killing Nick. If I were a cop, I’d send someone to keep an eye on Boseman’s house. But I wasn’t a cop. I had no backup.
But I had Rachel.
“No way,” she said. “No. I can’t spend all day sitting in my car baking like a damn cake. I have to work.”
“When you’re not working.”
“I have like half a dozen assignments to set up in the next couple of days. I don’t even know what free time is, Dex.”
“Please.”
“Why don’t you do it? You don’t have a job.”
“That hurt.”
“Dex, don’t make me do this. It’s so boring. I don’t have the time.”
“Please, Rachel, just do me a favor. When you’re not working, swing by Point of Rocks and check out the house. I’ll do the same. If anyone goes in, let me know.”
We shared a long dry silence. Then she sighed. “You owe me, man. Big-time.”
“I do. I’ll get you a nice bottle of Fireball.”
“A case.”
We hung up. I stared at my document. Maya was getting the insurance money. I imagined she might also get the inheritance. Who else was there?
Maybe Boseman was in cahoots with her. They had been dating. She had been living with him. Anything was possible. I couldn’t allow my meeting with Maya and her syrupy charm blind me. She could be in it up to her ears. Shit. Maybe she conned Boseman. Maybe she had seduced him and set him up to do the deed. He kills Zavala, she inherits the money and splits. It was so obvious—maybe too damn obvious.
I had to find Nick’s lawyer and see who else was poised to get rich from Nick’s death.
I called Jason Kirkpatrick and left a message. I was sure he knew who was handling Nick’s affairs. Then I called Brian. Lucky me. The first lawyer in the history of lawyers to answer his phone.
“Why?” he said when I asked him about Nick’s lawyer.
“I want to know who’s inheriting his fortune.”
“I thought we were done with this,” he said. “I can’t keep bailing you out. I work. I have other clients. Come on.”
“Just ask around. See what you can find out. Please.”
We hung up. He could be so damn temperamental.
I put on another record, R.E.M.’s Murmur, and went about cleaning my house and putting things in order. An organized environment allows for organized thinking. Besides, there was nothing else to do. I had the feeling Petrillo was going to lay off my case for a while. He wanted to catch the real killer, and unless Nick Zavala put me in his last will and testament, I was off the hook.
I had to change gears. I had been neglecting my pathetic little freelance business. The money Nick had paid me was going to run out in two or three months. My severance was gone. I had to find health insurance, a job, some way to earn a buck.
I sat down and surfed the net, checking out the job sites. Sarasota had little to offer in terms of work. It was just a tourist spot for rich people and spring breakers. There were two shitty little papers and a couple of fluffy magazines. I hated to think about it this way, but if I wanted to stay in the journalism game, I was going to have to do a national job search. But there were layoffs everywhere—even the Times and the Post. No one was immune. I had a career that no longer existed. No one was going to hire me. I had to reinvent myself. I had to do something new.
I had three e-mails from the editor of Sarasota City Magazine. She wanted some details on my articles cleared up. I shot back with a few exaggerations, the kind of shit she wanted to hear so she could wrap up the issue, send it to print, and mail me my damn check.
I leaned back in my chair and looked at the picture of Zoe I had propped in the back of my desk. I had taken it last year when she was here for the summer. She looked cute. But I remembered the day. She’d been upset because I sent her to day camp while I went to work. I made a mental note to change things. For some reason it made me think of Maya and Tiffany. What they had probably been through. I made a promise to myself, to Zoe. I was going to be more involved in her life.
I picked up my phone and dialed her mother’s number. But I couldn’t bring myself to press send. What was I going to tell Zoe?
I set the phone down, pushed the guilt out of my mind. I had to finish the business at hand. I would call her later. And I would listen. I would sit there and hear all the stories she had from school and the neighborhood and her grandmother’s place. But first I had to sort this out.
One thing that kept plaguing me was Mexico. If that crazy Malcolm could make it as a freelance journalist, so could I. I could put my house up for rent, sell all my shit, and get down there. I could see Flor and freelance for national publications. Who knew? In Mexico the possibilities were endless. Maybe I could even search for my extended family. Or I could move back to Houston or San Antonio. Sure, I had ghosts all over Texas, but I’d be closer to Zoe. I’d become a part of her life.
There was nothing tying me to this place except the house. And Holly. Holly who hadn’t called me back in two days and who really might not even give two shits about me after all. I thought of our meetings at Caragiulos and here at home, her hands caressing my hair, her lips, red and shiny with that bright neon lipstick. I loved her lips. I needed to see what was going to happen with that before I could make a move. I wasn’t going to mess it up like I did three years ago. No more what-ifs.
But I was getting ahead of myself. I was getting neurotic—full blast neurotic. I could see a wide-open future but didn’t know which direction to take. This was the kind of shit that happened when I was idle, when I wasn’t elbow deep in an investigation of some kind. Idle time breeds mischief. It drove me to drink. I realized that now. When my mind wasn’t focused on something, I was dangerous. I could trip right into a bottle of booze. Careful, Dexter, I told myself, tread with care. Keep your head together.
I needed to get out of the house. I needed air. I needed to find Joaquin del Pino and learn about this nonprofit and whether Boseman was somehow connected to it.
I drove downtown to his office across the courthouse. It’s funny about lawyers. Everyone talks about how much money they make, and I know del Pino made out just fine cheating people out of half the money they were awarded in a lawsuit settlement. Things were fucked up that way—I guess that’s why insurance companies and lawyers are a breed unto themselves. But del Pino’s office was pretty humble and straightforward. He had a secretary, two paralegals, and a waiting room. Nothing fancy. The furniture was mahogany veneer, and the walls were lined with dark leather-bound law books.
I asked the secretary for del Pino.
“Yes, of course,” she said in a gentle tone. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Not really,” I said and glanced down the hall at one of the paralegals talking to someone who was out of my line of sight. “But I left a message yesterday.”
“Dexter Vega.”
The secretary didn’t seem to react to my name. She checked her calendar and a list of names on a book that I imagined were either the appointments or messages for the big-shot lawyer. Then she raised her eyes at me and said, “And when did you call?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
She shook her head as her fingers traced the names on the paper in front of her. I glanced to the side. The paralegal had vanished. The hallway was empty, the doors closed.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Vega. I don’t see anything here with your name on it,” she said. “Would you like to make an appointment?”
“Sure.” I smiled. “But where’s Mr. del Pino now?”
“He’s in court.”
“I see.”
“The first opening I have available is on the twenty-eighth.”
“That’s three weeks from now.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re very busy.”
“But in the commercials he says he’ll see us immediately, talk to us in person.”
“Were you in an accident?”
I thought of my entire life as one long continuous wreck. “Yes. Pretty bad. It was the other guy’s fault. The cops gave him two citations. I keep getting this pain in my lower back—”
“One moment,” she said and stood. “Let me speak with his paralegal and see if she can speak with you.”
“But the commercial said I’d get to speak with him. You know, Justice for All?”
She covered her mouth. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing at what I said, that I said it, or just about the stupid commercial. “Let me see if we can fit you in. Please wait a moment.”
She walked down the hallway and knocked on a door. I followed her. When the door opened, I peeked in. No del Pino. His paralegal didn’t seem to be bothered by my presence. I held my lower back and winced. The secretary explained my predicament. The paralegal smiled and said she could fit me in first thing in the morning.
“He wants to see Mr. del Pino,” the secretary explained. I nodded with a sorry and painful expression.
“I’m not sure he can,” the paralegal said. She was very pleasing and polite. I liked her right away. “But I’ll talk with him. If you come at seven thirty tomorrow morning, he might be able to duck in and see you before his other appointments.”
This sounded vague enough to me. When I left del Pino’s office, I walked across the street to the county courthouse. I went through the metal detector in the lobby and asked the officers if they’d seen Mr. del Pino.
“If he’s got court, he could be upstairs. I just started my shift,” the one officer said.
I took the elevator, passed the next metal detector, and asked for del Pino. The three officers manning the metal detector conferred with each other. Then the female officer said, “He’s probably on the next floor. Civil court.”
I went up to the next floor, passed the metal detector. Just then a door opened, and half a dozen people walked out of a courtroom, all in suits, all looking prim. One of them wore a neck brace and had an arm in a bandage. Leading the group was del Pino himself.
“Mr. del Pino,” I said. They had come to where I was to take the elevator. “Can I have a word with you?”
I’m sure he recognized me. “I’m with a client,” he said seriously. “Why don’t you stop by my office and make an appointment.”
He was so goddamn proper I wanted to squeeze him to death. What Holly ever saw in this yahoo was beyond me. He was short and balding and had deep brown eyes that held no emotion whatsoever. He looked dead.
The elevator opened and a few people, all suits, got off and del Pino and his gang got on. I jumped in with them, squeezed shoulder to shoulder. I smiled. “We’re like sardines,” I said.
No one laughed.
I addressed del Pino: “I saw you’re the director for BRAVO. You like to help abused children.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know Michael Boseman?”
He shook his head. “Please. This is not the time. I’m with a client.”
“I know,” I said. “But this will only take a second.”
“I don’t know Mr. Boseman. Not that I can recollect.”
“I’m sure you know him. He was at a fund-raiser for your charity at the Ritz-Carlton in February. Does it ring a bell?”
Del Pino smiled nervously and looked away from his client and then up at the numbers on the elevator. The descent was slow. But I was sure it was moving a lot slower for him.
“Of course, I remember the fund-raiser. But I met a lot of people that night. If you make an appointment, I’m sure we can—”
“So it’s going pretty well?”
“The charity?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a lot of work. Not many people know about the abuse these kids suffer.”
“What about Mike Boseman?”
The elevator doors opened, and we stepped out to the lobby. I kept pace beside del Pino and his clients. “He was a big shot in town,” I said. “He was going to bring Hollywood to Sarasota. Remember that?”
He shook his head. One of his clients looked at me. “I remember that guy.”
“There you go,” I said. “So, he was at your fund-raiser. And Maya Zavala or Edwards. Do those names ring a bell?”
“Maybe,” del Pino said. “Were you there?”
“Unfortunately, I missed that one.” We walked out of the building. We were standing on the sidewalk waiting for the light to change so we could cross and go to the parking lot or to del Pino’s office. “But there’s a great picture. Came out in the social pages of The Sara-Scene Magazine. You know it?”
He didn’t answer. The light changed. We walked together.
“In the photo you’re talking to him. You and Boseman,” I said. “Or maybe I should ask Holly.”
He stopped walking and turned to face me. “Is that what this is about? Holly?”
“No, no. I’m over all that. Are you?” I had hit a nerve. When someone falls into that space that’s full of emotion—that middle ground of fear—they can misstep.
“Listen to me, Mr. Vega.” He waved his finger, his face red and moist with sweat. “You cannot accost me this way, in front of my clients, and accuse me of anything.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m only asking if you know these people.”
“I told you I do not know them. I do not know any Boseman or Maya whatever the last name was. I don’t. If they were at my fundraiser, that was their choice. I don’t know them. I do not know them.”
And like that he turned and marched off with his client and their small entourage. Well, he had given me something. He repeated that he did not know them—five times. A long time ago I learned that if someone repeats something, they’re probably lying.
I got in my Subaru and drove back down to Siesta Key. I figured I might as well keep an eye on Boseman’s house. I parked across the street in a tiny patch of shade offered by a sea grape tree in the neighbor’s yard. It was a long shot. Everything was a long shot. If del Pino wasn’t willing to tell the truth, then I couldn’t count on what he really knew. He was a pro. I couldn’t force it out of him.
I was out of leads. And as long as the case stayed open, I was a suspect in the eyes of Frey and the Sarasota PD. I didn’t want to go to prison. But it was more than that. I believed in doing the right thing. Zavala and Boseman and del Pino, they represented everything that was wrong with the world. They took advantage of people. They were greedy rats.
I sat sweltering in the car despite the shade. I checked Facebook on my iPhone. Flor was moving her team to a new canal in Xochimilco. She posted a few photos. She wore the wet suit without the mask. Her hair was wet, her eyes focusing on the camera lens—determined and proud. She was surrounded by her team. It was great to have a purpose in life, something worth fighting for. When I was a journalist, I’d had the same excitement. I believed. But my drive to fix the problems of the world was fading fast. I turned on Pandora and listened to some old jazz and stared at Boseman’s place. Between the houses I could see an occasional beachgoer climbing through the rocks to get to the other side of the beach. Paradise. But even paradise had its problems. The world was one big problem. I kept telling myself it wasn’t my job to solve it. I needed to accept things for what they were. I envied the people who were content living in a cubicle in some office, pushing papers or entering data into a computer. Work was work, and time out of work was time out of work. They didn’t obsess about the shit I obsessed with. Living with my brain was exhausting.
I wished I were back in Mexico. I could be with Flor right now, helping her look for the axolotl. But Mexico had problems. Big fucking problems. How could I complain? I swallowed my anger and let it go. Life was not easy.
After an hour or so I decided to call Holly. This time she answered.
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for three days,” I said.
“Hey, now.” Her tone went from soft, to professional, to downright nasty. “Don’t you talk to me that way, Dexter. I’ve been busy. I work. I have responsibilities.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“You don’t have exclusive rights over me.”
“I apologize.” I took a deep breath, eased up. “I was worried. I thought something happened.”
“Well, I have a huge caseload I need to deal with,” she said. “This is really not a good time.”
“I need to talk with you. It’s important.”
“So’s my work, Dexter. It’s going to have to wait.”
Damn. She wasn’t even calling me Dex. In a strange way it reminded me of del Pino’s pissy attitude when I asked him about Boseman. What was it about lawyers?
I didn’t want to ruin my chances with Holly. I needed to take it easy. I knew I had a tendency to rush people, corner them. I could be obsessive and that pissed people off.
“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry. I guess we’re both under a lot of stress. Can we meet for drinks later tonight?”
She sighed. “That would be nice.”
“How about Caragiulos?”
“No, no. Let’s go somewhere far from downtown. I need a break from this place.”
“Shit.”
“I forgot.” Brian Farinas. I have to meet him at Shakespeare’s pub tonight. “I made an appointment.”
“Oh, Dex. Not tonight.”
“Let me see if I can get out of it,” I said. “I’ll call you in a bit.”
“I’m meeting with a client in five. Text me, or call me later. After seven.”