South by Southeast (22 page)

I cut my makeup session short to find a corner to work my cell phone while Escobar huddled with his lighting guys. The mansion's high ceilings were a lighting nightmare. Escobar told us not to wander far, always certain we would be rolling at any moment, but after fifteen minutes, I realized I might have an hour on my phone. Signs condemning cell phones were posted everywhere on the set, but I kept mine on vibrate and my conversations quiet.

I'd tried calling Victoria, the high-end escort Raphael had told me about, but she'd never answered her phone the night before. I wanted to find out about the time she'd spent with Mr. Big Nose, a.k.a. Juan. She might not talk to the police at all. I tried her number again.

“Who's this?” a woman's voice said.

“Raffi gave me your number,” I said.

I apologized for bothering her and stuck with my story that I was looking for my daughter. I had no idea if Raphael had mentioned me to Victoria or what he had told her to say.

In the long silence, I wondered if she'd hung up on me. Finally, she sighed as if I were an annoying pollster. “Raffi told me I shouldn't talk to you. But you're not a cop, so go on.”

Victoria told me she had “dated” Juan twice, and both times she had been to “his boat.” She said he liked to sit and watch her touch herself, a sanitized story. A good lawyer could say she hadn't described an illegal act. In her place, I wouldn't have trusted me, either.

I glanced around to make sure I was out of anyone's hearing range, especially Escobar. I was in the archway leading to the patio, out of Escobar's earshot.

“Where's this boat? What does it look like?”

“It's not a yacht or anything, but it has a cabin.”

“Cabin cruiser? How big?”

“Not too big. Maybe thirty feet. Nice, but it got cramped.”

“Does his boat have a name?”

“Yeah.” A pause while she thought about it.
“Rosa.”

“That's it?” Boat owners didn't usually name their boats the way they would name a pet. The names were usually more elaborate. “That's not part of a longer name?”

“R-O-S-A, painted next to a picture of a red rose. I can spell.”

The boat might be a rental, but I finally had a clue. “Where's it docked?”

“Once I boarded at Bayside, another time at Miami Beach Marina.”

Details were precious, so I wrote them all. Escobar might rent slips all over town, a different dock each night. Neither marina she had mentioned was likely to let him live aboard, but I would check.

“He ever mention where he lives?” I asked her.

“No, but he's working, so maybe a hotel.” She might know more, but she wouldn't say.

“What kind of work does he do?” A quick flick of my eyes again, and I saw Escobar staring up at a footlight's stream, preoccupied. “Is he in the film business?”

“I don't know. He's not the chatty type,” Victoria said. I wondered if she was protecting him or if she really didn't know.

“Could he be wearing a disguise?” I said.

“Definitely a wig. I can tell. He never takes it off.”

“Does he have an accent?”

“Maybe a little. Everyone in Miami has an accent. He might be Spanish.” Spanish, to Victoria, probably meant Cuban or Nicaraguan
or Puerto Rican or Panamanian. I didn't waste time pressing, since she wasn't likely to know his ethnicity. Escobar might still be my man.

I took a chance. “Have you ever heard of Gustavo Escobar?” My voice was so low I had to repeat his name twice. He was thirty feet from me, but I had nowhere else to go except the archway. Bored crewmen were smoking on the patio behind me.

Victoria said she hadn't heard of Escobar. Over the phone, I guided her to photos of him on Google Images on her iPad, but she didn't recognize his name or face. Obviously, she would have been more likely to see through the disguise if she'd met him beforehand. But then again, my Escobar theory might be wishful thinking.

“Did the guy ever hurt you in any way? Anything rough?”

“He's on an ego trip, so he's got a mean mouth. But he barely touches me.”

“Has he ever drugged your drink?”

A pause. “How does this help you find your daughter, exactly?”

“Miss, I'm sorry, but she might have been with the same man. I'm trying to eliminate him as a suspect.” I cringed at my wording; I sounded like a cop, not a father.

“I've never had blackouts with him, if that's what you mean. He's a business associate.”

“No dizziness, then?” I said, remembering Maria from the surveillance tape.

Victoria sighed hotly. “You're way off base with this one. I have to get ready for class. Tell Raphael to go to hell for giving you my name and number. Good luck making your case.” She hung up.

Damn.
I'd pushed her Cop button, and I was back where I'd started. I didn't have evidence to make Escobar a real suspect to anyone but me, and I couldn't eliminate him, either. But at least I could start looking for his boat.

Gustavo suddenly snapped a finger at me, as if he'd heard my thoughts.

“Is that your daughter, Chela? Tell her hello for me,” Escobar said.

He gave me a long gaze, and I doubt he missed how much he'd startled me. “I'm ready for you,
mijo
. Put the phone away.” Escobar winked at me and flashed me a dolphin's smile before he walked off.

I felt sick when I remembered that I'd introduced Chela to Escobar on the set the same day she later went out with Maria. His careful eyes probably had spotted Chela at Club Phoenixx; maybe he'd chosen Chela
because
he recognized her.

If he was a killer, I had let a sociopath into my life. Close to my family.

Maybe he'd wanted to drown Chela, not Maria. Maybe he'd only settled on Maria when Chela backed away. How many others had he killed? For how long? Like any good director, Escobar might have had our story mapped out long before I arrived in Miami.

Why had Escobar chosen me to be in his movie? What did he want?

During that day's shoot, I could barely remember my lines.

THE SOUTH BEACH
Police station is dressed up in lights, blending into the art deco district like an attraction. It's one of the loveliest stations in the country, but nothing makes up for having to visit the police on a sunny day.

One of Dad's connections had led me to an appointment with Detective Lydia Hernandez, who hardly looked a day over twenty-five. I wondered how she'd had time to make detective, much less in homicide. In all likelihood, her boss had asked her to talk to me; most of the cops in LAPD who knew Dad held high positions.

She was tall, with wavy dark hair wrapped in a long ponytail. Miami's women are also among the finest in the country, and Lydia Hernandez could have let good looks carry her anywhere. I knew in a glance at her peach-colored tailored pants suit that she was a climber who wouldn't appreciate flirting. She dressed more like FBI than local police. The handcuffs on her belt reminded me to be cautious.

“So you're reporting a homicide?” Hernandez said once we were in an interview room. She flipped a tiny metal paper clip between her fingers.

“Your Jane Doe drowning victim is a prostitute who was working South Beach. Her name is Maria Dominguez. She's part of a suspicious
pattern. I'm a private detective, and I've been asked to share my investigation.” I'd given her the basics on the phone, but I summarized again.

“Tennyson Hardwick,” she said. “I know who you are.” To her credit, her tone was neutral. For whatever reason, she'd decided to hear me out—or pretend to.

I handed her my evidence packet, which included Maria's driver's license, Raphael's cell phone (I'd copied all of the incoming and collected numbers for my own use), and duplicates of my security photos.

Detective Hernandez registered surprise at the driver's license. She opened a file on her desk and compared it with the artist's sketch. “We got intel it might be her,” she said. “Prints match, so we'll make her ID public today. You got this license how?”

She was taking notes, suddenly very interested in my opinions. I told her about Julio's fake ID enterprise below Fifth Street and the prostitution ring at Club Phoenixx.

“Excuse me,” Detective Hernandez said primly. She stood up with my evidence and slipped the bag into her folder. “I'll be right back.”

I wondered if she was having a rookie moment, unsure of how to proceed. Or maybe she was trying to sweat me to shake up my story. It could have been a little of both.

Fifteen minutes later, she came back with a silver-haired male detective whose name tag identified him as
R. MCCLARY
. His face was leathery from sun; I guessed he was in his early fifties. A third detective stood in the doorway, a brother in his thirties with bulky arms and a sour face. I'd wanted the police to take me seriously.

Be careful what you wish for.

“Go on,” Detective Hernandez said. “You were saying?”

Hernandez and the brother took notes while I described Chela's encounter with Julio. I only called Chela “a witness” and didn't tell them she was my daughter; I would save that information for
when it was absolutely necessary. I described Raphael's relationship with the girls and the nightclub's nonintervention policy.

“Sounds like SIU,” Detective McClary told her, not sounding impressed. SIU was short for Strategic Investigations Unit, which included prostitution and drugs.

“What makes you think this was a homicide?” Hernandez asked me.

“Third suspicious drowning of a prostitute in three weeks?” I said. I looked at their faces, and they seemed surprised but engaged. “One in Miami, two on the beach. The girls are doing a ‘buddy' system. Plus, our girl doesn't swim. Hated the water. She's last seen looking woozy leaving the club on this guy's arm. She was so out of it she left her purse and cell behind.”

They passed the photocopy around.

“Another serial killer,” the black detective said sarcastically, shaking his head.

“Who's this again?” McClary asked Hernandez, as if I weren't there.

“He's a PI,” Hernandez said. “Hardwick. The Sofia Maitlin guy.”

The black detective laughed. “Oh, shit! You're right. He is that guy.”

“T. D. Jackson didn't look like a homicide, either—at first,” I said, reminding them that I was still in the room. Before my reputation took its dive with Sofia Maitlin, I'd gained recognition for solving the murder of T.D. Jackson.

“A broken clock is right twice a day,” Detective McClary said.

Same song, different city. I nearly graduated from the police academy, but cops and I have never gotten along.

I soldiered on with my story, summarizing my conversation with Victoria. I invited them to call her, as well as the woman Chela called Mouse Girl. I described the boat named
Rosa
and where it had been docked.

“The man in that photo is wearing a disguise, but I have a possible name,” I said. “Gustavo Escobar.”

Hernandez dropped her hand away from her pad in mid-sentence. “Gus?” she said. I didn't like the sound of
Gus
. She almost said more but stopped herself.

“Who?” McClary said.

“Gus Escobar,” the black cop said. “You know, the Cuban film director.”

“Why would I know that?” McClary said.

Hernandez ignored her colleague, staring heavily at me. “Do you have evidence against Gustavo Escobar?” Her voice had been placid, but now a razor was primed to slash at me.

“He's good with makeup,” I said. “I believe he has a connection to Raphael. He frequents that nightclub. If you notice his earlobe—”

The brother gave Hernandez a look:
Are you kidding with this?

Hernandez looked embarrassed. “Fine,” she said, cutting me off. “Thank you for bringing this to us, Mr. Hardwick. Leave your cell number, please.”

“Yeah, thanks for stopping by from Hollywood to visit us little people,” McClary said.

I wanted to say a few things to McClary, but Hernandez steered me toward the elevator, giving me her business card. “There might be something here,” she said. “But leave the police work to us. If you try to publicly link Gustavo Escobar to this drowning, you'll be opening yourself to legal retaliation like you've never seen.”

“Excuse me?” I said. She was so polite I almost missed her threat.

“We don't like circus acts,” she said. “You've got a dead hooker who might be a homicide, fine. I'll look into it—I promise. But I also promise that if you turn this into a circus with your Hollywood bullshit, you'll be sorry you came to us.”

I was already sorry. So much for Hernandez being the Good Cop.

We had reached the elevator. “You called him Gus. You know him?”

“Sure, I know him like most people in Miami do—from the newspaper,” she said. “I read the
Miami Herald
. He made
Nuestro Tío Fidel
, which my parents saw three times. He just gave a million dollars to Miami's performing arts school. The mayor of Miami hosted a private party for him last week. My lieutenant tells us, ‘Remember, Gus is shooting on the beach today.' That's how I know him. If we find evidence he's a serial, I'll be the first to lock him up. But without evidence, you came to the wrong town to take his name in vain.”