Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (17 page)

"Are
you two married," Silvana asked, taking in both of them with her eyes.

"No,"
they answered in unison. Then Logan said, "We just live together."

Silvana
looked at the barefoot slob in the muumuu. "How about you, ma'am. Can you
remember a week ago Friday night?"

"Yes,
I remember very well," she said with a lot of authority. "I came home
from work — I'd had a very rough week and I was glad it was Friday. I had
a couple of beers and we watched a little TV. I always unwind when we sit
together on the couch in front of the TV. I find it very relaxing."

Relaxing, my ass, bitch,
Silvana thought.
This fucking Cuban can see right through your bullshit.

"I
don't suppose you're aware of any crimes in the Miami-Fort Lauderdale area your
boyfriend has committed?"

Before
the fatso could answer, Logan piped up. "Hey, I already told you, I'm no
criminal."

"Then
what
do
you do for a living?"
Vargas asked.

"I
work in landscaping."

"Who
do you work for?" Silvana said.

 
"Well, I'm going this week to speak
to a local guy about a full-time job in that field."

"In
other words," Vargas said, "you're unemployed."

"For
now, yes. But like I said, this week —"

"This
week,
bullshit
!" snarled Vargas.
"You're on the grift, pal. Admit it."

"I
admit nothing. Now if you two are through here, I'm going back to bed. Or
should I call our boys in blue?"

Silvana
sighed. She and Vargas made for the door and she said, "We're through for
now, Logan. But just because we're from Miami, don't think we're ever too far
away to nail your fucking ass on three counts of murder."

Logan

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

7:25 AM

T
HE TWO COPS WALKED OUT
OF OUR APARTMENT
and didn't shut the door behind them. That's an old play. Designed
to show complete disrespect for the residents, show them that if they want the
fucking door closed, they can do it themselves. The final little slap before
going back to wherever the fuck they came from.

Dorothy
shut the door and watched out the window as they got into their car and drove
away. Then she turned and said, barely above a whisper, "How the
fuck
did they put it all together?"

I
shrugged. "Shit, your guess is as good as mine. But one thing's for
certain, I've got to be very careful from now on. They're onto me and they
won't let up. I can't take any chances at all. I've got to stay off the radar
as best I can, you know?"

"Did
you leave any evidence up there? Any witnesses? Anything at all?"

"No.
I'm positive. Nothing."

"Well,
where did they get the idea about liking you for it?"

"I
have no fucking clue," Logan said. "But I know I didn't leave any
evidence."

Dorothy
said, "No prints? Not anything?"

"No,
nothing. I'm almost positive."

"
Almost
positive. That's not gonna get
it! You have to be sure!"

"All
right," he said. "I'm a hundred fucking percent positive. I didn't
leave any evidence. None! Only thing I left is shell casings, and I wiped those
clean before I went up there."

"Did
you see anyone on the way back to Key West that night? Anybody? Run into anyone
in Miami before you went to Chicho's house?"

"No.
Nobody at all. I rented the car here but I used a fake ID and credit card. I
checked into a fleabag hotel after I got up there, I guess it was around
midnight, 'cause, you know, I needed a little shut-eye. I spoke to the desk
clerk when I checked in, but that guy, he won't remember. His eyes were
gin-soaked all the way through. He probably can't remember anything from one
day to the next. Besides, the hotel wasn't really near the house."

"Well,
how do they know? They must have
something
to go on. Shit! They've got
some
thing!"
I heard the urgency in Dorothy's voice. She was worried for me.

"They've
only got a theory. How they got it is beyond me, but I know they have no proof.
If they had, they'd've shown up with Key West PD, all nice and official, and
I'd be riding back to Miami in fucking handcuffs with them right now."

"I
didn't like them the minute I opened the door. They didn't look like Key West.
That fucking dyke … I didn't think we had anyone like that here on the force
working plain clothes. That's why I told you something didn't smell right about
them.

"Yeah,
it's a good thing you let me know that. Sharp work. You see them when I asked
to see their badges? Ha! They looked like they wanted to string my ass up right
here in the living room."

Dorothy
poured out a little laugh. I was glad. It helped lighten the moment. "So
what do we do now?"

I
thought for a minute. "We do nothing. Keep on living our lives like
normal."

"You
gonna get that tree-trimming job from what's-his-name?"

"Don
Roy Doyle," I said. "Yeah, I'm gonna get it. He's out of town right
now. Won't be back for a week or so. But when he comes back, seeing him's the
first thing on my list."

"What
are you gonna do in the meanwhile?"

"Like
I said, we go on with our normal lives. You show up for work at the courthouse
every day. I'll stay around here. Don't worry. We'll be all right." I
pulled her to me. "We'll be all right, my love. They won't get me." I
pulled her to me and whispered in her ear, "They'll never get me."

She
embraced me with all her strength and said into my chest, "God, I hope
not. I don't know what I'd do without you."

We
hugged for a long time. A couple of long kisses, and I got an urge. I said,
"Now how 'bout a little pick-me-up before you go to work?"

Logan

Saturday, July 9, 2011

11:30 PM

I
DROPPED INTO THE
WILD THING
during the shank of Saturday night. Thirsty customers stood two deep at the bar
hollering out orders. The scantily-clad bartenders moved fast to churn out
their drinks, but I could tell they were way behind. Free-poured whiskey flowed
carelessly into ice-filled glasses, mixers to follow. Rock music roared at
earbleed level from enormous speakers placed in all corners of the club. It
would've been impossible to find relief, a spot where you could talk in a
medium yell. Full throat was your only choice here. Two strippers bounced
around on the brightly-lit stage, both of them working the pole with great
skill. Their G-strings burst with cash shoved in there by the hyped-up suckers
surrounding the stage. LeeRon was probably getting a blowjob back in his
office. What a racket.

I
noticed Sharma working the floor in between her stage appearances, hustling
champagne and lap dances, playing touchy-feely with the customers, a mild
variation on the world's oldest profession. Eventually, she made her way over
to the spot I'd staked out at the end of the bar. She approached me, her nasty
mouth widening into a leering smile.

"Hey,
honey, what's up?" Her blonde hair hung a little limp with perspiration from
the hot stage lights. She wore pasties over her considerable tits, all
supposedly covered by a low-cut, see-through teddy. A gold G-string and Lucite
heels completed her evening dress.

I
said, "It's Saturday night, baby. Payday."

Her
smile vanished. "Payday?"

I
held out my palm and crooked my fingers at her in a come-on gesture.
"Tonight and every Saturday. One grand."

She
gave me a look that said, "I don't think so." It was accompanied by
that wiseass slouch you see in the mugshots of street punks. Then she said,
"Trey says I don't have to pay you anything on account of his marker was
torn up."

"I
don't give a
fuck
what Trey says. He
didn't make our deal. He didn't get you this job. I did. You're on the hook for
a thousand a week. Tonight's payday. Let's have it."

Her
head swiveled around, taking in the scene. With her chin jutting out, she was
telling me we were on her turf. Like she was one with the other strippers and
these slobbering customers. She spoke like she had the Seventh fucking Cavalry
behind her, swords raised. "I don't think I have to. Besides, it's a lot
of money. Too much, if you ask me."

"No
one's asking you. Believe me, you don't want to jack with me on this."

"I'm
not paying."

I
grabbed her wrist and twisted the skin hard without twisting her arm. It hurts
like hell if the arm is fleshy, which hers was. Feels like the skin will peel
right off. It's all in how you grab it.

"Go
get the fucking money. Now."

"You're
hurting me. Let
go.
"

"You
think this hurts, you don't know what hurt is. Pay what you owe." To be
honest, I didn't really know if I would follow through on that threat.

I'm supposed to be fucking retired,
for Christ's sake. Why am I doing this?

Well, all right, I'm doing it for the
money she owes me, but isn't that what it's always about? Money? And she does
owe it to me, right? I mean, I got her this damned job. She never even would've
found this joint if I hadn't brought her here. Wasn't for me, she'd be on the
bus back to Hialeah.

Whoever said money was the root of
all evil didn't quite get it.

The lack of money is the root of all
evil.

"I
don't
want to
pay
," she said.

I
leaned over and spoke directly into her ear so I wouldn't have to shout over
the music. "Listen to me now. You can make a big fuss about this here and
maybe they'll throw me out, but I'll see you sooner or later at that little
place you're staying at up on Caroline Street. First floor apartment, isn't it?
Around back?"

Her
eyes got wider. She clearly didn't think I knew where she lived. I said,
"I know you know how this works. We had a deal, you and me. I got you this
job and you owe me for it. It's got nothing to do with Trey's debt. Don't be
stupid, Sharma. You fight me on this, there's nothing in it for you but bad
shit."

She
tried to manipulate her arm so the pressure would lessen. It didn't work, but
it made it look like I was getting rougher than I was, and she succeeded in
creating a mini-scene. One of the bartenders caught it. Sharma quickly pasted a
pained look on her face. The bartender rushed over, her tits jiggling as she
ran. Nice ones, too.

She
said, "What's going on here? Sharma, you OK?"

I
let go and put on a facial expression of my own. A fake smile.

"I
was just caressing her arm," I said. "Got a little carried away.
Guess I don't know my own strength."

The
bartender said, "Sharma? Everything all right? Want me to get
Alexander?"

Sharma
tried to rub the pain out of her wrist. My eyes told her what to say.
"N-no. Everything's fine, Brandy."

"You
sure?"

"I'm
sure." She managed a brief smile. "No problem."

"No
problem at all," I said in my most innocent-sounding voice. "I didn't
mean anything by it."

"Okay,"
Brandy said. "But I'm right here if you need me. And Alexander can be here
in a second." She resumed her drink making, but never really took her eyes
off us.

I
returned my attention to Sharma. "Go get the fucking money. Now."

Her
chin lowered and her eyes looked up at me, almost totally blocked by thick,
fake lashes. Her raunchy mouth curled into a pout, the kind that ordinarily
would make guys melt and do whatever she wanted. It was apparently a reflex
with her, the last tool in her box. When she wasn't getting her way, down goes
the chin, out comes the pout, and the guy caves.

However,
she quickly figured out it wasn't working on me. The pout went away, a weary
resignation swept across her face instead, and she said, "It's in my
purse. I'll be right back."

Silvana

Sunday, July 10, 2011

1:05 PM

S
ILVANA
MACHADO FINISHED HER LUNCH
and paid the tab. Cost way more than she would've liked, but this little spot
in Coral Gables had this great salad that spoke to her one day a year or so
ago. Yes, it was expensive, but she couldn't resist the temptation. So every
once in a while, she would treat herself to lunch over there on the Miracle
Mile.

She
stepped out into the heat, but for some reason, it wasn't quite so bad today.
The temperature dropped a little bit overnight and took the humidity with it.
Today, so far, it hadn't bothered to climb back up to an oppressive level. Days
like this were rare in the Miami summer, and it was her day off, so she enjoyed
the outdoors while she could.

She
went walking down the Miracle Mile, the fancy stretch of street that plunged
Coral Gables headlong into the national consciousness. Medium- and high-end
stores followed one another down its entire length. Just past Ponce de Leon
Boulevard stood a Barnes & Noble. She stopped.

The
windows held the usual bookstore stuff, and normally she would've waltzed right
on by without any hesitation, without even noticing it. Today, though … today,
she gazed past the window displays into the store itself, and a minute or two
later, she went in.

As
the air conditioning took its soothing effect on her, her thoughts rambled back
over her life, and she realized this was the very first time she had ever set
foot in a real bookstore. She cautiously moved deeper into the store, eyes
darting here and there, as though she were walking down a dark alley in a high
crime area, self-aware and certain that everyone was eyeing her. Positive they knew
she didn't belong.

The
aisles of books beckoned to her, the sign over each indicating the type of
books to be found on those particular shelves. One aisle was labeled "Self
Help" and she strolled down it. Another customer who was browsing the same
aisle saw her and then noticed her pit viper tattoo. His eyes quickly moved
back to the book in his hand. Silvana was used to it. They look, they fear,
they look away. Her muscular build and her tight, unpainted face gave off that
kind of vibe, the one where people don't want to get close, don't want to risk
an encounter with her out of concern of what might happen to them.

She'd
always rolled that way among society-at-large. Her hard brown eyes, thin lips,
her laconic presence … she was not a welcoming woman and she didn't mind. If
they didn't want to know her, they could go fuck themselves. She didn't care
about them, anyway. She had her job.

My job. It's the … the origin of
nearly all I treasure in life, and I'm good at it. The ability to go after
murderers and rapists and wife-beaters and pimps with almost no restrictions?
Ha! And to make some of those scumbags pay while I'm doing it?
I
wouldn't trade it for anything
.

Her
wandering took her to the "Mystery" aisle, where she slowed down
considerably. She checked out each spine for the title, occasionally picking
one out and glancing at it before putting it back. The books were arranged
alphabetically by author. Pretty soon, she came to Michael Connelly.

She
examined this section closely — and it took up a good deal of the shelf —
pulling out each book and looking at its cover, and in most cases, the back
cover copy. When she came to
9 Dragons
,
she turned away from the shelf, clutching the book, gazing at the cover. The
numeral 9 was on fire and something about it simply swept her away. The flames
shooting off from the numeral sent a chilling feeling of danger all through
her. It was not the same cover she had seen in Vargas's apartment. This was a
hardcover, his was a paperback. But she was positive it was the same book. Same
title, same writer. Had to be the same book. She opened to the first page.

This
cop, whose name was apparently Harry Bosch, noticed his partner straightening
up his cubicle, arranging everything just so. The partner went so far as to
align the corners of the file folders stacked on his desk and carefully put
away his coffee cup.

God damn!
she thought.
This guy is just like me! How the hell did this Connelly …

Before
she finished the thought, she headed for the cashier and paid for the book with
twenty-six dollars of what was formerly Maxie Méndez's money.

Outside
the store, she found a bench in the shade and immediately started reading. A
liquor store owner gets wasted, and this guy Bosch knew him from the
neighborhood. Bosch gets involved and finds out a bunch of chinks are behind
it. Silvana didn't know much about chinks except they usually live in
California — LA and San Francisco mainly — and from what she'd
heard, they could be plenty deadly. She was glad there weren't too many of them
in Miami. She'd seen a couple of them wandering around the station — she
thought one of them might work in forensics — but she never had any
contact with them, nor did she want any.

A
couple of hours passed before she realized what had happened. She had been reading
the entire time. She had … escaped.

Letting
out a big exhale, she got up from the bench, and, holding the book close,
returned home to read some more.

≈ ≈ ≈

Later that night, as she lay on her bed, she finally put the book
down. She was not quite halfway through, but the story had reeled her all the
way in. Sleep was calling her, but before she answered, she called Vargas. He
answered on the first ring.

"What's
up, Silvi?" he asked. His rough rasp told her she woke him up.

"Hey,
Bobby, I gotta tell you, I bought this book today. This book
9 Dragons
written by Michael Connelly.
You know? You have the same book, right?
9
Dragons
?
I saw it when I was in
your apartment a few days ago, that day when I came to pick you up to go to Key
West. I've been reading it all day. It's fucking fantastic."

"Which
… ?"

"
9 Dragons
. The one by Michael
Connelly."

"Oh,
9 Dragons
. Yeah, I think I remember
that one."

"I'm
just past the part where he finds out about the Hong Kong connection and he —"

"Huh?
Hong Kong?"

"Yeah.
Remember? There were all these chinks in the story."

"Oh
yeah. Now … I remember. The chinks. What of it?"

"Man,
it's great! This guy Connelly knows how to write. Bosch is one badass
motherfucker and … and everything."

"Yeah,
I guess so. Is that all you wanted?"

"Well
… I guess it is. But you know, I just wanted to tell you I saw the book on your
bookshelf, so I bought a copy today. It's a great story."

"Yeah.
Great story. Well, I was just turning in, Silvi. I'll see you tomorrow,
okay?"

"Right,
Bobby. Right. Tomorrow. Okay. Good night." She slowly placed the phone in
its cradle. Her internal clock told her it was time to turn in. She brushed her
teeth, got undressed, and climbed into bed. When she reached to turn off the
bedside table lamp, she paused.

Instead,
she picked up
9 Dragons
and kept
reading.