AGAINST THE WIND (Book Two of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (2 page)

Silvana

Miami,
Florida

Friday,
March 30, 2012

3:10
PM

"F
LEABAG"
WAS TOO NICE A WORD
for the Sea & Sand, which, by the way, was near neither
ocean nor beach. Peeling paint and fading pastels told the whole story. The
sign, which looked like it dated from the 1950s, was missing a couple of
letters, and weedy growth showed itself around the property in all the wrong
places. The potholed parking lot held a couple of crappy cars from the
nineties, and those baked under a scorching sun. The whole place looked like it
had terminal asthma, like it couldn't catch a full breath.

In front of a room toward the rear stood a much newer white Lexus sedan,
conspicuous amid the despair of the motel. A black and white blocked it in.
Silvana and Vargas drove to it.

The door to room 112 yawned and two uniforms stood in the doorway. The
detectives got out of the car, tin flapping from their breast pockets. The
taller of the two uniforms, who looked Cuban, spoke.

"Sergeant Machado," he said. "Patrolman Acevedo."

Silvana's eyebrows went up at the familiarity. "Have we met,
Patrolman?"

"Sort of, ma'am. You gave a talk on evidence gathering when I was at
the academy."

"We-ell," she said through a chuckle, "I hope I didn't
teach you any bad habits."

"Ha! No, ma'am. None at all."

"Okay, what've we got here?"

"My partner and I took the call. We got here about twenty minutes
ago. One victim, Caucasian male, identified as Robert Harvey, address listed in
Coconut Grove. DOB 3/10/59, two bullet holes in the head, execution-style. No
witnesses."

"Naturally," Silvana said. She looked around, down the row of
worn, grimy rooms. What a dump. "How about any of the other guests? Or the
manager? They hear any shots?"

"The manager says he heard what might have been gunfire about thirty
minutes ago. He came down to investigate and saw the door was ajar. He pushed it
open and saw the body. Then he called 911."

"Anything else?" she asked.

Acevedo said, "Not much. One guest, though, in room 104, said he
thought he might've heard shots, but he also says he saw a car leave right
afterwards. We had him stay till you got here."

Silvana nodded approval. "Any description on the car?"

"Dark late model sedan. Black, maybe dark blue. No make. He says all
cars today look alike. Can't tell 'em apart."

"Can he describe the driver?" Vargas asked.

"Negative."

Silvana said, "Let's have a look inside."

They walked in. The body was naked, face down on the bed, a wide red
stain surrounding the head. He was a large man, Silvana noticed, probably fifty
or sixty pounds overweight and his hair was — wait a minute —
wait a minute!

She slapped on her latex gloves and bent down for a closer look. Turning
his head to one side so she could see his face, she gasped. "Holy
shit!"

"What?" said Vargas. "What is it, Silvi?"

She gently placed the head back on the pillow and turned to Vargas.
"This is Harvey the County Commissioner, for Chrissakes."

"The guy who gave us all that shit that day in Santos's
office?"

Silvana nodded. She remembered it too well. Bob Harvey, Miami-Dade County
Commissioner, swung a lot of weight around town, including high up in the
department. His wife's teenage niece was killed in a bloody triple homicide in
Little Havana last summer and Harvey was all over the Chief to find the killer.
The Chief leaned on Santos and one day Harvey himself showed up in Santos's
office to rattle a few cages. Gave her and Vargas all kinds of shit,
threatening them with this and that. Typical big shot politician trying to
shove everyone around. She had to admit, she wasn't too sad to see him go.

Her attention turned back to the corpse. Visible bullet holes, one above
the left eye, the other a couple of inches to the left, toward the temple.
Acevedo had it right. Execution.

"Stay here," she told Acevedo and his partner. "Forensics
will be here before long. Nobody gets in till then."

Room 104 sat a little way down the row. Silvana and Vargas went straight
to it. A man stood in the doorway, observing the proceedings. Unruly hair and
rumpled clothes suggested a hurried attempt at making himself presentable. Age:
crowding sixty. Vibe: meek.

Silvana spoke. "Police officers, sir. I understand you heard
shots?"

"Not sure, officer. Not sure they were shots, that is. Could've been
someone banging on a door or a wall a couple of times. You know, with some kind
of hard instrument. Or maybe a car backfiring."

He struck Silvana as distinctly middle management. Make no waves. Used to
taking orders and not giving them, merely passing them along to what underlings
he had. Definitely not an alpha male. More like an epsilon male. Or zeta. Most
likely taking off work a little early for a quick shot of pussy on his way home
to the little woman and dinner.

Silvana looked past his shoulder into the room. A strikingly-beautiful
girl in her twenties lay on the bed with the TV remote in her hand and a bored
look on her face, smoking a cigarette. Silvana thought,
A girl this gorgeous, what's she doing in this fucking hole? She should
be getting on private jets for Vegas, not flopped on a cheap bed in this place.
With this douchebag.

The girl's silken black hair was splayed all over the pillow, as though
it were carefully arranged. She wore only panties. The TV was almost as loud as
the window air conditioner.

Silvana turned her attention back to the meek little middle manager. "Patrolman
Acevedo says you saw a car leaving. That right?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "That's right."

Vargas said, "According to the patrolman, you don't know the make or
model of the car?"

"Naw, these cars today, can't tell the difference one from another.
Used to be, you know, you could tell a Chevy Impala from a Chevy BelAir.
Nowadays, you can't even tell a Ford from a damn Tie-ota."

Vargas nodded. "And you didn't see the driver?"

"Nope. Didn't see him at all. Say, Detective, I won't have to
testify or anything, will I? You know, I'd hate for my wife to find out about
my being here, or —"

"Right now, I wouldn't worry about it, sir," Silvana said.
"But give Detective Vargas here your name and phone number in case we need
to ask you a few more questions. We'll be discreet, I promise."

He exhaled and gave Vargas the information off his driver's license.

They moved around him into the room. The girl never moved to cover
herself, nor did she unglue her eyes from the TV.

Silvana said, "What about you?"

"What about me?" she said in a sassy, nasal tone. She took a
deep drag on her cigarette.

"Did you see or hear anything?"

"Nah. I didn't hear nothin'." Another drag.

"You sure?" Vargas said.

"I told ya, didn't I? I didn't hear nothin'."

Silvana slapped the girl's hand. The cigarette flew across the room and
the girl yelped. "Look at us when we're talking to you, bitch!"

She sat up immediately, rubbing the sting out of her hand. Her knees drew
up to her chest in an attempt to cover herself.

"I didn't see nothin'," she said with a little more humility,
"but I heard the shots. They was shots, all right. Two of 'em, coming from
down there." She pointed toward room 112, then toward the middle manager
still in the doorway. "He jumped right offa me and headed for the window.
He opened the blinds a crack, but I don't know what he saw."

"Take her name and address," Silvana said to Vargas. He did and
they left the room.

They found the office. The manager snapped to attention at the aging desk
when he saw Silvana and Vargas come in. Silvana wasn't sure which was older,
the manager or the motel.

"Glad to see you two," he said. "This is just awful, I'm
tellin' you." Silvana spotted an accent in his voice, maybe Southern, but
she wasn't sure. Although she left Cuba for Miami over twenty years ago, and
although her English was impeccable, she still had a hard time placing accents.

They showed him their IDs. "I'm Detective Sergeant Machado, sir. And
this is Detective Vargas. We understand you heard the shots."

He ran a hand across his stubbled face. "Thass right. I's watching
Judge Judy on TV here in the back when all of a sudden I heard these two loud
pops. Sounded like they came from down the end of the row, you know? I turned
the volume down on the TV, but I didn't hear any more."

"Then what did you do, sir?" Silvana asked.

He looked at her through red eyes. "Well, I got up, of course. An' I
went to the window an' saw this dark sedan driving past the office at a pretty
good clip. Comin' from that end of the row, you know, where I heard the
pops."

"Can you describe the car?"

"Looked like it mighta been a Nissan. Not too old. Black, or maybe dark
gray. Hard to tell. It went by pretty fast, you know?"

Vargas said, "What about the driver? Can you give us a
description?"

"Mmm, I don't think —" He paused, then he quickly said,
"But wait, now, I did see there were two of 'em in the car. Thass all,
though. Couldn't tell you any more about 'em."

"Were they both males? Or was one of them a female?" Vargas
asked.

"Mmm, like I said, can't tell you any more'n
I already have. Sorry."

"Okay, then what happened?" Silvana said.

"I went down to the room. The door was cracked just a little, so I
pushed it all the way open and saw the guy on the bed, saw all the blood. Thass
when I called the police."

"How about the registration?" Silvana said. "What name did
he use?"

"Well, lessee," he said. He pulled out a book with lined pages,
which check-ins had to actually sign. Running a gnarled finger down the list of
signatures, he stopped at the last one. "Here it is."

Silvana looked at it. "Eric Clapton", it read.

"How much did you charge him?" she asked.

"The normal rate. Forty dollars. For two hours."

"Did he have anyone with him? A girl, maybe?"

"Shoot, I s'pose he did. You know, a lot of 'em do come here with
young ladies for one thing or another. But I didn't see any girl this time. She
musta been in the car when he checked in. Thass how it is with most of 'em, you
know. The girl stays in the car."

"Car? You mean the Lexus?" Vargas asked.

"I don't know. I didn't see what car they drove up in. Just assumed
they drove up in something. That big white car down there. Looked like a Lexus,
so I guess it musta been that one. I c'n tell you, though, I seen that fella
before."

"You have?" Silvana said, eyebrows shooting skyward.

"Oh, yeah. He's been here at least ten, twelve times."

"In what period of time, sir? I mean, how long has he been coming
here?"

"Wa-a-al, I'd say prob'ly in the last six months or so. Yeah. The
last six, seven months."

Silvana checked the register and noted "Eric Clapton" had
checked in approximately once every two weeks or so over the last few months.
She handed him a card. "Here's my number, sir. If you can think of
anything else, and I mean
anything
,
please give me a call. Thank you for your cooperation."

"Oh, you bet! Always glad to help the police. You know, my brother
was a cop back home in Tennessee. Always glad to help."

Silvana cracked a smile.
I was
right
, she thought
. He's from the
South.

Silvana

Miami, Florida

Friday, March 30, 2012

4:20 PM

B
ACK AT
HEADQUARTERS
,
Silvana and Vargas stood uneasily in Santos's office. He did not invite
them to sit in the two chairs facing his desk. Even though the air conditioning
was doing its job, he still reached for the little fan which sat on a nearby
file cabinet, flipping it to a higher setting. It blew directly at him,
rustling a little of his thick hair.

"I don't have to tell you two what this means. Harvey was the most
powerful member of the County Commission, in some ways more powerful than the
mayor. Whenever the Governor is in town, they play golf together. One of our
United States Senators considers him a personal friend and counts on him to
deliver the Miami-Dade County vote in every election."

Silvana spoke up. "Sir, he was also the same guy who gave us all
kinds of shit last year, threatening us and everything, over that Little Havana
bloodbath where that young girl was killed."

Santos put on his no-bullshit look. "That's ancient fucking history,
Machado. And you'd better treat it as such. One of the most powerful men in
South Florida is shot to death in a cheap motel and we're going to respond with
everything we've got." His voice boomed through the office and out into
the hallway. "I'm assigning you two to this case. And I'm counting on you
to get to the bottom of it without delay. The Miami
Herald
is going to splash this all over their front page for God
knows how long."

"Yes, sir," she said.

"Now, do you have any preliminary ideas about who might've done it?
What about the whore? Could she have set him up?"

"It's possible, sir," Silvana said. "The manager said he
saw a car pull away right after he heard the shots and two people were in it.
So it might have been the whore and the shooter. Although there doesn't seem to
be a motive for a whore to kill him. We don't know at this point."

"Sounds pretty iffy. Any other ideas?"

"Well, offhand, sir, I'd say we should start looking at Maxie
Méndez."

Santos clasped his hands together and steepled his index fingers.
"You mean because of his involvement with that shopping center deal?"

"Yes, sir," Silvana replied, remembering Harvey's brother, a
local real estate developer who had filed permits for a large shopping center
near the racetrack. She had discovered the brother was merely a well-disguised
front for Bob Harvey himself who, as it turned out, had crawled into bed with
Maxie Méndez on the deal. She said, "Maybe Méndez pushed Harvey a little too
hard and Harvey pushed back. Even though Harvey was a powerful guy around here,
Maxie doesn't like to get pushed." She was well aware of Méndez's power
and his willingness to use it in his criminal enterprises.

A nod from Santos. "Yes, that may be. He might well have
overreacted. Follow up on it."

"Sir," Vargas said.

"What is it, Detective?"

"Méndez operates out of Hialeah. Out of our jurisdiction. The Hialeah
PD isn't gonna do shit for us. They hate everything having to do with
Miami."

"You're saying … you can't
get
to him, Detective Vargas?"

Silvana knew her partner had stepped in shit. She said, "What Bobby
means, sir, is Méndez is invulnerable because he has the Hialeah PD in his
pocket. And procedure says we have to have their okay if we want to
—"

"Goddammit, Machado, I know what the procedure is! I don't need
you
to tell me." His fist pounded
the desk to underline "you". Again, the sound flew into the hallway.
Silvana's head went down, but only a little. In a much calmer, more deliberate
voice, Santos said, "Do whatever you have to do. You've done it before.
Now get the fuck out of my office!"

≈ ≈ ≈

Silvana and Vargas left the building and headed for their
respective cars. "See you Sunday," Silvana said, referring to their
weekly dinner date where they divvied up their collections. And this was
Friday, which meant collection day, so she hit the streets before heading home.
But first, an important phone call. She punched up a number and got an answer
on the first ring.

"Flaco," she said. "Sergeant Machado."

"Yeah, what the fuck you want?"

"Is that any way to talk to an old friend? We haven't spoken in a
while and I just wanted to check in with you. How are you doing?"

"I'm awright," he said with absolutely no enthusiasm.

"Meet me in our usual spot," she said. "Twenty
minutes."

"Hey! Wait a minute! I'm in the middle of somethin' here!"

"Twenty minutes." She ended the call.

≈ ≈ ≈

Twenty-five minutes later, she arrived at the Bay of
Pigs Museum, a smallish, attractive building in a quiet neighborhood of Little
Havana, Southwest Ninth Street off 18th Avenue. The place celebrates the valor
and tragedy of the fateful day in 1961 when a CIA-backed invasion of Cuba
turned into disaster. An open-air alley ran next to the building, and when she
pulled up out front, Flaco stood in the alley, smoking a cigarette.

She parked and got out of the car. As was their custom, Flaco remained in
the alley and she went to him.

"Flaco, Flaco, Flaco." She put on a tight smile.

Like his name suggests, Flaco was a skinny fucker. Skinny, but not gangly
or awkward. He was well-proportioned for his weight, and he even showed a
little muscle tone, or as much as a guy his size could show. She had heard from
reliable sources he could take care of himself against much bigger opponents.

"Yo, Machado," he said. "Long time, no see." He took
a big drag on his cigarette.

Silvana said, "Not so long. Last I heard, you've moved up to number
two man behind Jimmy Quintana, right after Jimmy moved up to Maxie Méndez's
number two."

"So?"

"Well, a street guy like yourself doesn't make such a move so quick,
doesn't get to be the right hand man of Maxie Méndez's top crew chief, unless
he gets a little help from somebody. You know, like an unseen hand?"

"What the fuck —"

"Quit pretending like you don't remember,
maricón
. My partner and I got Yayo Dávila out of the way last year
so Quintana could move up into his slot and take you with him. Time to show
some appreciation."

"I ain't no snitch, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Silvana's tone downshifted to soft, motherly level. "Of course
you're not, Flaco. You're one more guy who's trying to get by. I know that. You
know that. I just need a little information right now and it's not going to
cost you anything. Nobody's going to get hurt. Nobody's going to get
busted."

"I ain't no fuckin' snitch!"

Her tone remained calm. "I'm not asking you to snitch, to rat
anybody out here. Like I told you, nobody's going to get pinched,
¿me entendés?
All I want to know is
anything you can tell me about this shopping center Maxie's involved in. Loma
Linda. The big one over by Hialeah Park."

"You mean the one they buildin' now?"

"That's the one."

"Well, like, what are you lookin' for? I don't know nothin' 'bout
construction or any of that, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"I need to know how deep Maxie's into it. I need to know how tight
he is with Phil Harvey, the developer, whether they had any differences between
them, maybe had words? Phil Harvey's brother is — uh, was — Bob
Harvey, County Commissioner. He was found dead today with two bullets in him at
a motel on Biscayne Boulevard. I need to know if Maxie was behind it."

"Shee-it, you don't want much, do you?"

"Like I said, you're not ratting anyone out, except maybe Maxie, if
he had Bob Harvey clipped."

"Yeah, Maxie. The guy I work for. No fuckin' way am I gonna rat him
out."

"You work for Jimmy Quintana, Flaco. Look at it this way. If Maxie
did it and we put him away, Jimmy becomes top dog and you move up with
him."

"I ain' lookin' to move up right now, you know what I'm
sayin'?"

"Just get me a clear picture of Maxie's involvement in all this, the
shopping center, the Harvey brothers, everything."

"Whatchu gonna do for me?"

She said, "That depends. What do you want?"

"I'll think of somethin'."

"Well, don't think too long. I need this information, like,
yesterday."

Flaco took one final drag on his dwindling smoke and flipped it away. It
landed in the alley in a little burst of orange sparks. "I dunno if I can
get you any of that shit, man. That's way outa my league."

"Just get me what you can. Jimmy ought to know a few things. But
remember, what you get me will determine what I will do for you. You do for me,
I do for you, you know? I hold up my end."

Silvana turned and went back to her car. He hollered after her,
"What if I can't find out nothin'?"

"You will. Or else Detective Vargas is going to pay you a little
visit when you least expect it."

She started her car, but before pulling away, she checked her mental list
of collections. At this hour, no matter which way she went there was going to
be heavy traffic. So she headed west.

First up: Desi Ramos at Dolphin Mall.