BRIAN WOULDN’T LET me off the hook. He was a busy lawyer and had made time for me so we could have a couple of beers at Shakespeare’s and discuss my case. I texted Holly and apologized—offered her a rain check. Then I drove out to our little English-style pub in a strip mall just off Siesta Key.
I took a table in the back. It was dark, secluded. There was a good crowd, and it took me a while to get a pint of Guinness. Not very imaginative, but it was really what I was craving, something heavy and smooth.
About fifteen minutes later, Brian showed up, a bottle of Holy Grail Ale in his hand. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” I raised my beer. “I’ve been here.”
He sat down and didn’t waste any time. “So they might be willing to drop the breaking and entering charges if they don’t hear from Boseman. But the child porn in your computer is another matter. You need a solid alibi for that one. Otherwise you’re going to see some serious time.”
“I will.”
“That new detective, Dominic Frey, is really making a big stink over you. He says you’re guilty and everyone’s sabotaging his hard work.” Brian took a long pull of his beer. “What’d you do to piss that fucker off?”
“I’m not sure.” I stared at my glass. The foam of the Guinness was so smooth and brown like the crème of the cappuccino I had outside Flor’s apartment. I missed Mexico. I missed Flor.
“Well, let’s not worry about that now,” he said. “Frey needs to convince Chief Miller and the State Attorney’s office that he has a solid case. They’re taking it slow because they want this thing to stick, use the child porn to hook you to the murder, which leads me to ask, how are we with that thing?”
“Not so good.”
“I don’t know how you get mixed up with these people: Zavala, Boseman, Frey.”
“I’m unemployed.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
I shrugged. “Anything on the inheritance?”
“Right.” Brian took a long swig of beer. “You’re not going to believe it.”
“What?”
“Justice for All.”
“What?”
He nodded, a wide smile on his face. “Joaquin del Pino is the official executor of the will. He’s Zavala’s lawyer. Well, one of his lawyers. But he wrote the will.”
“But he’s a fucking accident lawyer, not a contract lawyer.”
Brian shrugged. “One-man band. You pay it, he’ll do it. I do all kinds of shit. Look at me now, talking to you and drinking beer.”
“That requires some serious talent.”
He took another long pull at the bottle, his eyes on mine. “Indeed it does.”
“Did he tell you who’s getting the money?”
Brian shook his head. “I made the inquiry. They should be getting back to me tomorrow.”
I thought about it for a moment. “Isn’t that like a conflict of interest?”
“I’m off duty.”
“No, for del Pino.”
Brian grinned. “I’m a criminal lawyer, but I do divorce and accident cases if it pays.”
“But you don’t do contracts.”
“I could if I wanted to.”
“Some profession,” I said. “Where are the ethics?”
“Sarasota’s a small town full of lawyers. It’s dog-eat-dog out there.”
“You sound like Rachel.”
“Rachel who?”
“A friend. A photographer. She does it all.”
“It ain’t easy, my friend.”
I went to the bar and got another round, only this time I had a Belhaven Ale. I ordered another Holy Grail for Brian and came back to the table.
He stared at my beer. “How come you didn’t get me one of those?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Some friend.”
“So here’s something weird,” I said. “I found out del Pino is the director of a nonprofit that helps abused children.”
“What’s so weird about that?”
“He holds Zavala’s will. Zavala was a pedophile. And he has a charity that helps Zavala’s victims. Weird, no?”
“I guess. But maybe del Pino didn’t know about Zavala’s nasty perversions.”
I shook my head. “Or he would have gone to the cops.”
“In theory.”
Brian had a good point. The thing that got me was that the thread of possibilities—of who might be guilty of killing Zavala—was getting longer. What had seemed obvious early on was getting murkier by the minute. I thought of the axolotl in the canals of Xochimilco and what Flor had told me once, that the deeper she went in the water, into the places where the axolotl was more likely to dwell, the more difficult it became to see clearly. The same was happening to me and my pathetic search for Nick Zavala’s murderer.
“Let me ask you this.” Brian pushed his chair back and stretched his legs. “Why are you still investigating the Zavala murder?”
I looked down at my beer, at the coaster on the table. Budweiser. Why do they have Budweiser coasters in the pub? Why was I still all jacked up on this bullshit?
“I think you need to let it go,” Brian said quietly. “Let the cops figure it out. I’ll get you clear of the two charges. You’ll be good.”
I shook my head. “I can’t.” I raised my eyes and traced the tiredness in his eyes. “It’s eating me in here.” I tapped my chest. “I have no job, Brian. I need something to do. And I feel like I have the answer to this thing on the tip of my tongue. I can’t just let it go. I want to know. Shit. I have to know.”
“You’d never make a good lawyer.”
I laughed. “Neither would you.”
We raised our bottles, the bottom of them touching gently in a friendly toast: “To the good guys.”
We drank a couple more beers. This time Brian had a Belhaven and I had a Black and Tan. I thought of all the evenings Brian and I had stayed up sifting through documents I’d gotten on the Sarasota PD through the Freedom of Information Act and from a couple of inside sources. We went over every line together, trying to find the bad apples, making a spreadsheet of the times they had used excessive force or charged an innocent person, shot the wrong perpetrator. It was a lot of work—tedious and detailed and time consuming. And Brian was getting nothing out of it. I might get an award. I got my paycheck. But all he got was the satisfaction that we were doing the right thing for the people of Sarasota.
And in the end, after all that work and exposing the department of multiple wrongdoings, the voters went to the polls and did absolutely nothing. Brian and I got so drunk after that. The city government refused to implement any changes to the department. It had all been a waste of time. We still had the same idiots in charge. The citizens of Sarasota preferred an arrogant and abusive police force. Sad. They deserved what they got.
We had dinner at the pub. I had a hamburger with caramelized onions and brie. Brian had the special, braised lamb shank. Just another night in our lives, so much like all the others, fighting the same useless battles, trying to figure ourselves out as much as we were trying to figure out the rest of the goddamn world.
Later, as I drove home, I thought about checking out Zavala’s house or going to Point of Rocks. But it was useless. What was the point?
I went home, parked in my driveway, and walked to the front door. Holly was sitting alone on the front porch.
“Damn!” I hopped back. “You scared the shit out of me.”
She stood and put her arms around me and kissed me on the mouth like an old lover. She pushed back and looked at the side of my face. “What happened?”
I smiled. “Long story.”
“Jesus.” She stared into my eyes, studied the cut on my cheek, my ear, my face. Then she rested the side of her face against my chest and sighed. “I am so tired, Dex.”
“Let’s go inside,” I said and opened the door. “I’m sorry about the dark porch. The bulb blew when I was in Mexico. I haven’t had time to change it.”
Mimi came to us, rubbing against our ankles. Holly picked her up and held her to her face. Holly had been with me when I adopted Mimi from the pound. I had been doing a story for the paper on the Humane Society’s mobile adoption truck and kind of fell in love with the cat—just as I had fallen in love with Holly.
“Would you like a drink?” I said.
“You have wine?”
“Beer or tequila,” I said and went into the kitchen.
“God, Dex. You haven’t changed.”
“Is that a beer?”
“Might as well.”
I opened a Big Top and served myself a tequila. We sat on the couch. Holly flicked her shoes off and folded her legs under her. “It’s been a long, crazy month.”
She was wearing a colorful sundress, something I imagined her wearing out to the farmer’s market on Saturday morning. She looked so good, fresh, beautiful—and tired. Her hair smelled great, and she had very little makeup, and glorious bright red lipstick that matched the red hibiscus flowers in her dress.
“You’re telling me.” I ran my hand along her arm to her shoulder. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “You working on a case?” I asked.
She laughed. “If it was only that. I’m in the process of moving my things out of Joaquin’s place, and he’s being difficult.”
“He doesn’t want you to leave?”
“I don’t know what he wants. He’s just being a jerk about it.”
I wanted to tell her I had seen her ex-boyfriend, that I was curious about his relationship with Zavala and Boseman. I wanted to ask her if she’d been at the charity fund-raiser at the Ritz. She would know if Boseman was friends with del Pino. But I said nothing. It didn’t seem like the time to bring it up and spoil the moment. I had learned my lesson well. My obsessions were not the obsessions of others. They turned people off, drove them away. If I wanted to be with Holly, I needed to back off. Like Rachel had said, don’t crowd a woman like Holly.
I put on Chet Baker’s My Funny Valentine. It had been my first jazz album ever. It had been expensive at the time. An original first pressing. Great sound. The texture of the man’s voice, of his trumpet, came out like a dose of heroin. It got me hooked.
I refilled my glass and brought Holly another beer. She moved back a little on the couch, stretched her legs, laid them over my lap, her skirt hiked up almost mid-thigh. I caressed her shins. Massaged her feet. Ran my hands up her thighs. She sighed and placed the beer can on the coffee table. Then she reached for my arm and pulled me toward her, opening her legs, making room for my body. Soon my lips were over hers, pressing against the bright red I loved so much.
* * *
The following morning, I made coffee and put on the Beatles’ White Album. Holly looked fantastic. I loved seeing her hair ruffled up, messed up over her head. Her sleepy face, eyelids half-closed, and a little cranky at having had to wake up and face another day.
“You have a nice life,” she said and served herself a cup of coffee. We went outside on the front porch and sat on the rockers. Across the yard the sun hit my neighbor’s oak tree, thick clumps of Spanish moss dripping from its branches like festive decorations. The birds, mocking birds and cardinals and woodpeckers and scrub jays, all over the neighborhood were causing a racket only they could comprehend.
“If you really knew my life,” I said, “you wouldn’t say that.”
“Come on.” She smirked. She looked stunning in my button-up oxford. “You have no real responsibility. And you know how to enjoy your environment. I’ve always loved your house. It fits you so well.”
“An old creaky house for a cranky old guy.”
She sipped her coffee. Then, without looking at me, she said, “So tell me about Mexico.”
The first thing that came to mind was Flor. It flooded me with guilt. Then I thought of the beating, the cigar in my ear. Maya. Boseman. “It was okay.”
“Yeah? Was it work?”
“Kind of.”
“Was it that thing, looking for the girl? Maya …”
“Yeah.”
“Did you find her?”
I chuckled and drank my coffee. “You could say that.”
“What happened?”
I leaned forward and showed her my ear. “I was asked to leave the country.”
“She did that?”
I shook my head and set my cup down. “Someone else did.”
She said nothing more, but looked ahead, her hands around the cup despite the warm morning. And I thought of how beautiful she looked, how I had wanted my life to be this moment—me and her together on the porch of this little old house forever.
But I could tell it wasn’t for her. This was not her dream. It wasn’t even her reality. For the first time in all my years of wishing Holly and I would get back together—make a serious go at it—I saw she would not be happy like this. Not here. Maybe she liked how it looked from the outside, from the visitor’s point of view. But not from the inside. It was different living it day in and day out.
I don’t know if it was this realization, or if it was something else, but I jumped right into it. “Did you know your ex-boyfriend wrote the last will and testament for Nick Zavala?”
“No, I didn’t,” she said flatly. “We never talked about work.”
How could two lawyers be in a relationship, live together for three years, and not talk shop? I didn’t believe her. “I saw him yesterday,” I said. “I asked him about his nonprofit, BRAVO.”
“I’m surprised he gave you the time,” she said.
I laughed. Then I stood and took her cup and went inside. I turned the record over and got us a refill. When I came back, she was standing in the yard looking up at the young oak at the end of the yard. “There’s a woodpecker up there. I can see him.”
“I know. I hear him every morning.”
“That’s amazing,” she said and came back to the porch and took the cup from me.
“You think del Pino knows Mike Boseman?”
She turned away. “Mike who?”
“Boseman. The guy who was going to bring Hollywood to Sarasota.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Did you ask him?”
“I did. But he said he couldn’t remember.”
“Maybe he doesn’t.” She turned back and gave me a look, her eyes tired but awake. “I’m going to have to get going, Dex.”
“Sure.” I was surprised at how sad I sounded. “I saw a photograph of del Pino and Boseman at a fund-raiser at the Ritz.”
“Oh yeah?”
I followed her inside. She set her cup on the kitchen counter and went into the bedroom, picking up her clothes, one piece at a time: panties, bra, dress, open-toe pumps. She stopped by the bathroom and looked back at me. “I have to get ready.”
I backed away. I paced in the kitchen. In the living room. I went outside and came back in. I changed the record. I put on Lester Young, Live at Birdland. It wasn’t a collector’s album, just a good album. Good morning music.
When Holly came out of the bathroom, she looked as good as always, just like she was when I found her sitting in the rocker on the porch last night. It killed me to see her, to be with her, to feel such an intense attraction.
“Do you remember that night at the Ritz?” I said.
“The fund-raiser?”
I nodded.
“I go to one of those events just about every month, Dex. They all blend in after a while.”
I walked her to her VW and opened the door. She touched my cheek with her hand, held it there like a token, a kiss between friends, love that isn’t real love, tenderness without commitment.
“Am I going to see you later?” I asked.
“Sure. Call me.”
“I had a great time, Holly. I know you did, too.” I don’t know why I was saying it, why I was pushing for something I knew was doomed if it was even possible. “We should spend more time like this.”
“Sure. That would be nice.” But I could hear an empty echo ringing in the hollowness of her words.
“Can you do me a favor?” I said. “Is there any way you can find out from Joaquin who’s inheriting Zavala’s estate?”
“Didn’t you just tell me you found Maya?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Look, Dexter. First of all, it’s a private matter. Joaquin is bound not to divulge unless his client releases him. Second, I am not really on good terms with him anymore. I don’t want to talk to him unless I have to.”
I took a step back. “I was just asking.”
“Why are you going on with this?”
“It’s who I am, I guess.”
She waved a thin, red-nailed index finger at me. “That’s the thing. You don’t know when to let go. That’s what makes you miserable. That’s why we can’t be together. You can’t just let things lie.”
“I’m naturally curious. I can’t help it.”
“Well, you should try.” She got in the car and closed the door. She backed out and then opened the passenger window and leaned over, her dark butterfly-shaped glasses hiding her big green eyes. “Please try and grow up, Dex. Take responsibility for your own path in life.”
Then she drove off.